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Illustrated  Cabinet  edition 


Cbe  XT  wo  paths  Lovers  JVIeime 
Val  D'Hrno  & Che  pleasures  of 
england  & /*  by  jfohn  Ruskin 


(Merrill  and  Baker 
publishers  jfc  JVcw 
Xorh  ^ ^ 


CONTENTS 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 

LECTURE  L page 

The  Deteriorative  Tower  of  Conventional  Art  over 

Nations,  .......  9 

LECTURE  II. 

The  Unity  of  Art,  . . . . . *36 

LECTURE  III. 

Modern  Manufacture  and  Design,  . . . *54 

LECTURE  IV. 

The  Influence  of  Imagination  in  Architecture,  . . 77 

LECTURE  V. 

The  Work  of  Iron,  in  Nature,  Art,  and  Policy,  . 103 

APPENDICES, 135 

LOVE’S  MEINIE, 

LECTURE  I. 

The  Robin,  . . . . . . . 157 

LECTURE  II. 

The  Swallow,  .......  180 


The  Relation  between  Michael  Angelo  and  Tintoret, 


211 


LOVE’S  MEINIE. 


FIGURE. 

i.  Long  Feathers  of  Robins  Wing  . 

2 <<  it  it  ti  it 

3.  The  Swallow  on  the  Wing 

4.  A Reptilian  or  Dragon’s  Wing 

5.  Section  of  Wing  .... 

6.  Wing  of  a Seagull,  open 

7.  u.  “ “ CLOSED 

<?,  Outline  of  Wing  Bones 

9.  Outer  surface  of  Seagulls  Wing 

10.  Inner  “ “ “ “ 

11.  Tops  of  the  four  lowest  feathers  in  figure  9, 


PAGE 

173 

174 

194 

I96 

197 

198 

199 

200 

201 

202 

203 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 

The  Ideal  of  an  Angel  . 

The  Serpent  beguiling  Eve 
Contrast  ..... 

Symmetry  . 

Ornament  ..... 
Classical  Architecture 
Centre  piece  of  Balcony  . 

General  Effect  of  Masses 
Profile  ..... 

Teeth  of  the  Border  . . , 

Border  at  the  side  of  Balcony 
Outline  of  retracted  Leaves 


PAG" 

22 

24 

64 

64 

65 

141 

147 

147 

148 

149 

149 

149 


VAL  D’ARNO, 


Nicholas  the  Pisan 

LECTURE  I. 

PAGE 

241 

John  the  Pisan 

LECTURE  II. 

253 

Shield  and  Apron  . 

LECTURE  III. 

266 

Parted  Per  Pale 

LECTURE  IV. 

278 

Pax  Vobiscum 

LECTURE  V. 

290 

Marble  Couchant  . 

LECTURE  VI. 

3°2 

Marble  Rampant 

LECTURE  VII. 

3*4 

Franchise 

LECTURE  VIII. 

326 

The  Tyrrhene  Sea 

LECTURE  IX. 

336 

Fleur  de  Lys 

LECTURE  X. 

• 

• 

352 

Appendix 

369 

PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 

LECTURE  I. 

The  Pleasures  of  Learning.  Bertha  to  Osburga 

LECTURE  11. 

The  Pleasures  of  Faith.  Alfred  to  the  Confessor 

LECTURE  III. 

The  Pleasures  of  Deed.  Alfred  to  Caur  de  Lion 


. 381 


• 396 

• 415 


LIST  OF  PLATES. 


VAL  D'ARNO. 

PLATE 

The  Ancient  Shores  of  Arno,  . 

I.  The  Pisan  Latona,  .... 

II.  Niccola  Pisano’s  Pulpit, 
ill.  The  Fountain  of  Perugia 

IV.  Norman  Imagery,  . 

V.  Door  of  the  Baptistery.  Pisa 

VI.  The  Story  of  St.  John.  Advent 
VII.  “ “ “ “ “ Departure 

VIII.  “The  Charge  to  Adam.”  Giovanni  Pisano  . 
“ “ “ “ Modern  Italian 

X.  The  Nativity.  Giovanni  Pisano 
XI-  “ “ Modern  Italian 

XII.  The  Annunciation  and  Visitation 


PAGE 

239 

248 

251 

257 

264 

305 

308 

308 

3i4 

352 

364 

374 

376 


PREFACE. 


The  following  addresses,  though  spoken  at  different  times, 
are  intentionally  connected  in  subject ; their  aim  being  to  set 
one  or  two  main  principles  of  art  in  simple  light  before  the 
general  student,  and  to  indicate  their  practical  bearing  on 
modern  design.  The  law  which  it  has  been  my  effort  chiefly  to 
illustrate  is  the  dependence  of  all  noble  design,  in  any  kind, 
on  the  sculpture  or  painting  of  Organic  Form. 

This  is  the  vital  law ; lying  at  the  root  of  all  that  I have  ever 
tried  to  teach  respecting  architecture  or  any  other  art.  It  is 
also  the  law  most  generally  disallowed. 

I "believe  this  must  be  so  in  every  subject.  We  are  all  of  us 
willing  enough  to  accept  dead  truths  or  blunt  ones  ; which 
can  be  fitted  harmlessly  into  spare  niches,  or  shrouded  and 
coffined  at  once  out  of  the  way,  we  holding  complacently  the 
cemetery  keys,  and  supposing  we  have  learned  something. 
But  a sapling  truth,  with  earth  at  its  root  and  blossom  on  its 
branches  ; or  a trenchant  truth,  that  can  cut  its  way  through 
bars  and  sods  ; most  men,  it  seems  to  me,  dislike  the  sight  or 
entertainment  of,  if  by  any  means  such  guest  or  vision  may  be 
avoided.  And,  indeed,  this  is  no  wonder ; for  one  such  truth, 
thoroughly  accepted,  connects  itself  strangely  with  others, 
and  there  is  no  saying  what  it  may  lead  us  to. 

And  thus  the  gist  of  what  I have  tried  to  teach  about  archi- 
tecture has  been  throughout  denied  by  my  architect  readers, 
even  when  they  thought  what  I said  suggestive  in  other  par- 
ticulars. ‘‘Anything  but  that.  Study  Italian  Gothic  ? — per- 
haps it  would  be  as  well : build  with  pointed  arches  ? — there 
is  no  objection : use  solid  stone  and  well-burnt  brick? — by  all 
means  : but — learn  to  carve  or  paint  organic  form  ourselves  ! 


4 


PREFACE. 


How  can  such  a thing  be  asked?  We  are  above  all  that* 
The  carvers  and  painters  are  our  servants — quite  subordinate 
people.  They  ought  to  be  glad  if  we  leave  room  for  them.” 

Well : on  that  it  all  turns.  For  those  who  will  not  learn  to 
carve  or  paint,  and  think  themselves  greater  men  because 
they  cannot,  it  is  wholly  wasted  time  to  read  any  words  of 
mine  ; in  the  truest  and  sternest  sense  they  can  read  no  words 
of  mine  ; for  the  most  familiar  I can  use — “ form,”  “ propor- 
tion,” “ beauty,”  “ curvature,”  “ colour  ” — are  used  in  a sense 
which  by  no  effort  I can  communicate  to  such  readers  ; and  in 
no  building  that  I praise,  is  the  thing  that  I praise  it  for, 
visible  to  them. 

And  it  is  the  more  necessary  for  me  to  state  this  fully  ; be- 
cause so-called  Gothic  or  Romanesque  buildings  are  now  rising 
every  day  around  us,  which  might  be  supposed  by  the  public 
more  or  less  to  embody  the  principles  of  those  styles,  but 
which  embody  not  one  of  them,  nor  any  shadow  or  fragment 
of  them  ; but  merely  serve  to  caricature  the  noble  buildings 
of  past  ages,  and  to  bring  their  form  into  dishonour  by  leav- 
ing out  their  souL 

The  following  addresses  are  therefore  arranged,  as  I have 
just  stated,  to  put  this  great  law,  and  one  or  two  collateral 
ones,  in  less  mistakeable  light,  securing  even  in  this  irregular 
form  at  least  clearness  of  assertion.  For  the  rest,  the  question 
at  issue  is  not  one  to  be  decided  by  argument,  but  by  experi- 
ment, which  if  the  reader  is  disinclined  to  make,  all  demon- 
stration must  be  useless  to  him. 

The  lectures  are  for  the  most  part  printed  as  they  were 
read,  mending  only  obscure  sentences  here  and  there.  The 
parts  which  were  trusted  to  extempore  speaking  are  supplied, 
as  well  as  I can  remember  (only  with  an  addition  here  and 
there  of  things  I forgot  to  say),  in  the  words,  or  at  least  the 
kind  of  words,  used  at  the  time  ; and  they  contain,  at  all 
events,  the  substance  of  what  I said  more  accurately  than 
hurried  journal  reports.  I must  beg  my  readers  not  in  general 
to  trust  to  such,  for  even  in  fast  speaking  I try  to  use  words 
carefully  ; and  any  alteration  of  expression  will  sometimes  in- 
7olve  a great  alteration  in  meaning.  A little  while  ago  I had 


PREFACE. 


5 


to  speak  of  an  architectural  design,  and  called  it  “ elegant,” 
meaning,  founded  on  good  and  well  “elected”  models  ; the 
printed  report  gave  “ excellent  ” design  (that  is  to  say,  design 
excellingly  good),  which  I did  not  mean,  and  should,  even  in 
the  most  hurried  speaking,  never  have  said. 

The  illustrations  of  the  lecture  on  iron  were  sketches  made 
too  roughly  to  be  engraved,  and  yet  of  too  elaborate  subjects 
to  allow  of  my  drawing  them  completely.  Those  now  sub- 
stituted will,  however,  answer  the  purpose  nearly  as  well,  and 
are  more  directly  connected  with  the  subjects  of  the  preceding 
lectures  ; so  that  I hope  throughout  the  volume  the  student 
will  perceive  an  insistance  upon  one  main  truth,  nor  lose  in 
any  minor  direction  of  inquiry  the  sense  of  the  responsibility 
which  the  acceptance  of  that  truth  fastens  upon  him  ; responsi- 
bility for  choice,  decisive  and  conclusive,  between  two  modes 
of  study,  which  involve  ultimately  the  development,  or  deaden- 
ing, of  every  power  he  possesses.  I have  tried  to  hold  that 
choice  clearly  out  to  him,  and  to  unveil  for  him  to  its  far- 
thest the  issue  of  his  turning  to  the  right  hand  or  the  left. 
Guides  he  may  find  many,  and  aids  many  ; but  all  these  will 
be  in  vain  unless  he  has  first  recognised  the  hour  and  the 
point  of  life  when  the  way  divides  itself,  one  way  leading  to 
the  Olive  mountains — one  to  the  vale  of  the  Salt  Sea.  There 
are  few  cross  roads,  that  I know  of,  from  one  to  the  other. 
Let  him  pause  at  the  parting  of  The  Two  Paths. 


THE  TWO  PATHS 

BETNG 

LECTURES  ON  ART,  AND  ITS  APPLICATION  TO  DECORATION 
AND  MANUFACTURE  DELIVERED  IN  1858-9. 


THE  TWO  PATHS, 


LECTURE  I. 

THE  DETERIORATIVE  POWER  OF  CONVENTIONAL  ART  OVER  NATIONS. 

An  Inaugural  Lecture , Delivered  at  the  Kensington 
Museum ,l  January , 1858. 

As  I passed,  last  summer,  for  the  first  time,  through  the 
north  of  Scotland,  it  seemed  to  me  that  there  was  a peculiar 
painfulness  in  its  scenery,  caused  by  the  non-manifestation 
of  the  powers  of  human  art.  I had  never  travelled  in,  nor 
even  heard  or  conceived  of  such  a country  before ; nor, 
though  I had  passed  much  of  my  life  amidst  mountain 
scenery  in  the  south,  was  I before  aware  how  much  of  its 
charm  depended  on  the  little  gracefulnesses  and  tendernesses 
of  human  work,  which  are  mingled  with  the  beauty  of  the 
Alps,  or  spared  by  their  desolation.  It  is  true  that  the  art 
which  carves  and  colours  the  front  of  a Swiss  cottage  is  not  of 
any  very  exalted  kind  ; yet  it  testifies  to  the  completeness 
and  the  delicacy  of  the  faculties  of  the  mountaineer  ; it  is  true 
that  the  remnants  of  tower  and  battlement,  which  afford  foot- 
ing to  the  wild  vine  on  the  Alpine  promontory,  form  but  a 

1 A few  introductory  words,  in  which,  at  the  opening  of  this  lecture, 
I thanked  the  Chairman  (Mr.  Cockerell),  for  his  support  on  the  occa- 
sion, and  asked  his  pardon  for  any  hasty  expressions  in  my  writings, 
[which  might  have  seemed  discourteous  towards  him,  or  other  architects 
whose  general  opinions  were  opposed  to  mine,  may  be  found  by  those 
who  care  for  preambles,  not  much  misreported,  in  the  Building  Chroni- 
cle ; with  such  comments  as  the  genius  of  that  journal  was  likely  to 
suggest  to  it. 


10 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


small  part  of  the  great  serration  of  its  rocks  ; and  yet  it  is 
just  that  fragment  of  their  broken  outline  which  gives  them 
their  pathetic  power,  and  historical  majesty.  And  this 
element  among  the  wilds  of  our  own  country  I found  wholly 
wanting.  The  Highland  cottage  is  literally  a heap  of  gray 
stones,  choked  up,  rather  than  roofed  over,  with  black  peat 
and  withered  heather ; the  only  approach  to  an  effort  at 
decoration  consists  in  the  placing  of  the  clods  of  protective 
peat  obliquely  on  its  roof,  so  as  to  give  a diagonal  arrange- 
ment of  lines,  looking  somewhat  as  if  the  surface  had  been 
scored  over  by  a gigantic  claymore. 

And,  at  least  among  the  northern  hills  of  Scotland,  elements 
of  more  ancient  architectural  interest  are  equally  absent. 
The  solitary  peel-house  is  hardly  discernible  by  the  windings 
of  the  stream  ; the  roofless  aisle  of  the  priory  is  lost  among 
the  enclosures  of  the  village  ; and  the  capital  city  of  the 
Highlands,  Inverness,  placed  where  it  might  ennoble  one  of 
the  sweetest  landscapes,  and  by  the  shore  of  one  of  the  love- 
liest estuaries  in  the  world  ; — placed  between  the  crests  of  the 
Grampians  and  the  flowing  of  the  Moray  Firth,  as  if  it  were  a 
jewel  clasping  the  folds  of  the  mountains  to  the  blue  zone  of 
the  sea, — is  only  distinguishable  from  a distance  by  one 
architectural  feature,  and  exalts  all  the  surrounding  landscape 
by  no  other  associations  than  those  which  can  be  connected 
with  its  modern  castellated  gaol. 

While  these  conditions  of  Scottish  scenery  affected  me  very 
painfully,  it  being  the  first  time  in  my  life  that  I had  been  in  any 
country  possessing  no  valuable  monuments  or  examples  of  art, 
they  also  forced  me  into  the  consideration  of  one  or  two  difficult 
questions  respecting  the  effect  of  art  on  the  human  mind  ; 
and  they  forced  these  questions  upon  me  eminently  for  this  rea- 
son, that  while  I was  wandering  disconsolately  among  the  moors 
of  the  Grampians,  where  there  was  no  art  to  be  found,  news 
of  peculiar  interest  was  every  day  arriving  from  a country 
where  there  was  a great  deal  of  art,  and  art  of  a delicate  kind, 
to  be  found.  Among  the  models  set  before  you  in  this  insti- 
tution, and  in  the  others  established  throughout  the  kingdom 
for  the  teaching  of  design,  there  are,  I suppose,  none  in  their 


POWER  OF  CONVENTIONAL  ART 


11 


kind  more  admirable  than  the  decorated  works  of  India.  They 
are,  indeed,  in  all  materials  capable  of  colour,  wool,  marble, 
or  metal,  almost  inimitable  in  their  delicate  application  of 
divided  hue,  and  fine  arrangement  of  fantastic  line.  Nor  is 
this  power  of  theirs  exerted  by  the  people  rarely,  or  without 
enjoyment ; the  love  of  subtle  design  seems  universal  in  the 
race,  and  is  developed  in  every  implement  that  they  shape, 
and  every  building  that  they  raise  ; it  attaches  itself  with  the 
same  intensity,  and  with  the  same  success,  to  the  service  of 
superstition,  of  pleasure  or  of  cruelty  ; and  enriches  alike,  with 
one  profusion  of  enchanted  iridescence,  the  dome  of  the  pa- 
goda, the  fringe  of  the  girdle,  and  the  edge  of  the  sword. 

So  then  you  have,  in  these  two  great  populations,  Indian 
and  Highland — in  the  races  of  the  jungle  and  of  the  moor — 
two  national  capacities  distinctly  and  accurately  opposed.  On 
the  one  side  you  have  a race  rejoicing  in  art,  and  eminently 
and  universally  endowed  with  the  gift  of  it ; on  the  other  you 
have  a people  careless  of  art,  and  apparently  incapable  of  it, 
their  utmost  effort  hitherto  reaching  no  farther  than  to  the 
variation  of  the  positions  of  the  bars  of  colour  in  square  cheq- 
uers. And  we  are  thus  urged  naturally  to  enquire  what  is  the 
effect  on  the  moral  character,  in  each  nation,  of  this  vast  dif- 
ference in  their  pursuits  and  apparent  capacities?  and  whether 
those  rude  chequers  of  the  tartan,  or  the  exquisitely  fancied 
involutions  of  the  Cashmere,  fold  habitually  over  the  noblest 
hearts?  We  have  had  our  answer.  Since  the  race  of  man 
began  its  course  of  sin  on  this  earth,  nothing  has  ever  been 
done  by  it  so  significative  of  all  bestial,  and  lower  than  bestial 
degradation,  as  the  acts  the  Indian  race  in  the  year  that  has 
just  passed  by.  Cruelty  as  fierce  may  indeed  have  been 
wreaked,  and  brutality  as  abominable  been  practised  before, 
but  never  under  like  circumstances ; rage  of  prolonged  war, 
and  resentment  of  prolonged  oppression,  have  made  men  as 
cruel  before  now  ; and  gradual  decline  into  barbarism,  where 
no  examples  of  decency  or  civilization  existed  around  them, 
has  sunk,  before  now,  isolated  populations  to  the  lowest  level 
of  possible  humanity.  But  cruelty  stretched  to  its  fiercest 
against  the  gentle  and  unoffending,  and  corruption  festered 


12 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


to  its  loathsomest  in  the  midst  of  the  witnessing  presence  of 
a disciplined  civilization, — these  we  could  not  have  known  to 
be  within  the  practicable  compass  of  human  guilt,  but  for  the 
acts  of  the  Indian  mutineer.  And,  as  thus,  on  the  one  hand, 
you  have  an  extreme  energy  of  baseness  displayed  by  these 
lovers  of  art ; on  the  other, — as  if  to  put  the  question  into  the 
narrowest  compass — you  have  had  an  extreme  energy  of  virtue 
displayed  by  the  despisers  of  art.  Among  all  the  soldiers  to 
whom  you  owe  your  victories  in  the  Crimea,  and  your  aveng- 
ing in  the  Indies,  to  none  are  you  bound  by  closer  bonds  of 
gratitude  than  to  the  men  who  have  been  born  and  bred  among 
those  desolate  Highland  moors.  And  thus  you  have  the  dif- 
ferences in  capacity  and  circumstance  between  the  two  nations, 
and  the  differences  in  result  on  the  moral  habits  of  two  na- 
tions, put  into  the  most  significant — the  most  palpable — the 
most  brief  opposition.  Out  of  the  peat  cottage  come  faith, 
courage,  self-sacrifice,  purity,  and  piety,  and  whatever  else  is 
fruitful  in  the  work  of  Heaven  ; out  of  the  ivory  palace  come 
treachery,  cruelty,  cowardice,  idolatry,  bestiality, — whatever 
else  is  fruitful  in  the  work  of  Hell. 

But  the  difficulty  does  not  close  here.  From  one  instance, 
of  however  great  apparent  force,  it  would  be  wholly  unfair  to 
gather  any  general  conclusion — wholly  illogical  to  assert 
that  because  we  had  once  found  love  of  art  connected  with 
moral  baseness,  the  love  of  art  must  be  the  general  root  of 
moral  baseness ; and  equally  unfair  to  assert  that,  because 
we  had  once  found  neglect  of  art  coincident  with  noble- 
ness of  disposition,  neglect  of  art  must  be  always  the  source 
or  sign  of  that  nobleness.  But  if  we  pass  from  the  Indian 
peninsula  into  other  countries  of  the  globe  ; and  from  our 
own  recent  experience,  to  the  records  of  history,  we  shall  still 
find  one  great  fact  fronting  us,  in  stern  universality — namely, 
the  apparent  connection  of  great  success  in  art  with  subse- 
quent national  degradation.  You  find,  in  the  first  place,  that 
the  nations  which  possessed  a refined  art  were  always  subdued 
by  those  who  possessed  none : you  find  the  Lydian  subdued 
by  the  Mede  ; the  Athenian  by  the  Spartan  ; the  Greek  by  the 
Roman ; the  Roman  by  the  Goth  j the  Burgundian  by  the 


POWER  OF  CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


13 


Switzer  : but  you  find,  beyond  this — that  even  where  no  attack 
by  any  external  power  has  accelerated  the  catastrophe  of  the 
state,  the  period  in  which  any  given  people  reach  their  high- 
est power  in  art  is  precisely  that  in  which  they  appear  to  sign 
the  warrant  of  their  own  ruin  ; and  that,  from  the  moment  in 
which  a perfect  statue  appears  in  Florence,  a perfect  picture 
in  Venice,  or  a perfect  fresco  in  Borne,  from  that  hour  forward, 
probity,  industry,  and  courage  seem  to  be  exiled  from  their 
walls,  and  they  perish  in  a sculpturesque  paralysis,  or  a many- 
coloured  corruption. 

But  even  this  is  not  all.  As  art  seems  thus,  in  its  delicate 
form,  to  be  one  of  the  chief  promoters  of  indolence  and  sen- 
suality,— so,  I need  hardly  remind  you,  it  hitherto  has  ap- 
peared only  in  energetic  manifestation  when  it  was  in  the 
service  of  superstition.  The  four  greatest  manifestations  of 
human  intellect  which  founded  the  four  principal  kingdoms 
of  art,  Egyptian,  Babylonian,  Greek,  and  Italian,  were  devel- 
oped by  the  strong  excitement  of  active  superstition  in  the 
worship  of  Osiris,  Belus,  Minerva,  and  the  Queen  of  Heaven. 
Therefore,  to  speak  briefly,  it  may  appear  very  difficult  to 
show  that  art  has  ever  yet  existed  in  a consistent  and  thor- 
oughly energetic  school,  unless  it  was  engaged  in  the  propa- 
gation of  falsehood,  or  the  encouragement  of  vice. 

And  finally,  while  art  has  thus  shown  itself  always  active  in 
the  service  of  luxury  and  idolatry,  it  has  also  been  strongly  di- 
rected to  the  exaltation  of  cruelty.  A nation  which  lives  a 
pastoral  and  innocent  life  never  decorates  the  shepherd’s  staff 
or  the  plough-handle,  but  races  who  live  by  depredation  and 
slaughter  nearly  always  bestow  exquisite  ornaments  on  the 
quiver,  the  helmet,  and  the  spear. 

Does  it  not  seem  to  you,  then,  on  all  these  three  counts, 
more  than  questionable  whether  we  are  assembled  here  in 
Kensington  Museum  to  any  good  purpose?  Might  we  not 
justly  be  looked  upon  with  suspicion  and  fear,  rather  than 
with  sympathy,  by  the  innocent  and  unartistical  public  ? Are 
we  even  sure  of  ourselves  ? Do  we  know  what  we  are  about  ? 
Are  we  met  here  as  honest  people  ? or  are  we  not  rather  so 
many  Catilines  assembled  to  devise  the  hasty  degradation  of 


14 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


our  country,  or,  like  a conclave  of  midnight  witches,  to  sum. 
mon  and  send  forth,  on  new  and  unexpected  missions,  the 
demons  of  luxury,  cruelty,  and  superstition  ? 

I trust,  upon  the  whole,  that  it  is  not  so  : I am  sure  that 
Mr.  Redgrave  and  Mr.  Cole  do  not  at  all  include  results  of 
this  kind  in  their  conception  of  the  ultimate  objects  of  the  in- 
stitution which  owes  so  much  to  their  strenuous  and  well 
directed  exertions.  And  I have  put  this  painful  question  be- 
fore you,  only  that  we  may  face  it  thoroughly,  and,  as  I hope, 
out-face  it.  If  you  will  give  it  a little  sincere  attention  this 
evening,  I trust  we  may  find  sufficiently  good  reasons  for  our 
work,  and  proceed  to  it  hereafter,  as  all  good  workmen  should 
do,  with  clear  heads,  and  calm  consciences. 

To  return,  then,  to  the  first  point  of  difficulty,  the  relations 
between  art  and  mental  disposition  in  India  and  Scotland. 
It  is  quite  true  that  the  art  of  India  is  delicate  and  refined. 
But  it  has  one  curious  character  distinguishing  it  from  all 
other  art  of  equal  merit  in  design — it  never  represents  a natu- 
ral fact.  It  either  forms  its  compositions  out  of  meaningless 
fragments  of  colour  and  flowdngs  of  line  ; or  if  it  represents 
any  living  creature,  it  represents  that  creature  under  some 
distorted  and  monstrous  form.  To  all  the  facts  and  forms  of 
nature  it  wilfully  and  resolutely  opposes  itself  ; it  will  not 
draw  a man,  but  an  eight-armed  monster  ; it  will  not  draw  a 
flower,  but  only  a spiral  or  a zigzag. 

It  thus  indicates  that  the  people  who  practise  it  are  cut  off 
from  all  possible  sources  of  healthy  knowledge  or  natural 
delight ; that  they  have  wilfully  sealed  up  and  put  aside  the 
entire  volume  of  the  world,  and  have  got  nothing  to  read, 
nothing  to  dwell  upon,  but  that  • imagination  of  the  thoughts 
of  their  hearts,  of  which  we  are  told  that  “ it  is  only  evil  con- 
tinually.” Over  the  whole  spectacle  of  creation  they  have 
thrown  a veil  in  which  there  is  no  rent.  For  them  no  star 
peeps  through  the  blanket  of  the  dark — for  them  neither  their 
heaven  shines  nor  their  mountains  rise — for  them  the  flowers 
do  not  blossom — for  them  the  creatures  of  field  and  forest  do  not 
live.  They  lie  bound  in  the  dungeon  of  their  own  corruption, 
encompassed  only  by  doleful  phantoms,  or  by  spectral  vacancy. 


POWER  OF  OONVENTIONAL  ART . 


15 


Need  I remind  you  what  an  exact  reverse  of  this  condition 
of  mind,  as  respects  the  observance  of  nature,  is  presented  by 
the  people  whom  we  have  just  been  led  to  contemplate  in  con- 
trast with  the  Indian  race  ? You  will  find  upon  reflection,  that 
all  the  highest  points  of  the  Scottish  character  are  connected 
with  impressions  derived  straight  from  the  natural  scenery 
of  their  country.  No  nation  has  ever  before  shown,  in  the 
general  tone  of  its  language — in  the  general  current  of  its 
literature — so  constant  a habit  of  hallowing  its  passions  and 
confirming  its  principles  by  direct  association  with  the  charm, 
or  power,  of  nature.  The  writings  of  Scott  and  Burns — and 
yet  more,  of  the  far  greater  poets  than  Burns  who  gave  Scot- 
land her  traditional  ballads, — furnish  you  in  every  stanza — 
almost  in  every  line — with  examples  of  this  association  of 
natural  scenery  with  the  passions ; * but  an  instance  of  its 
farther  connection  with  moral  principle  struck  me  forcibly 
just  at  the  time  when  I was  most  lamenting  the  absence  of  art 
among  the  people.  In  one  of  the  loneliest  districts  of  Scot- 
land, where  the  peat  cottages  are  darkest,  just  at  the  western 
foot  of  that  great  mass  of  the  Grampians  which  encircles  the 
sources  of  the  Spey  and  the  Dee,  the  main  road  which  trav- 
erses the  chain  winds  round  the  foot  of  a broken  rock  called 
Crag,  or  Craig  Ellachie.  There  is  nothing  remarkable  in 
either  its  height  or  form  ; it  is  darkened  with  a few  scattered 
pines,  and  touched  along  its  summit  with  a flush  of  heather  ; 
but  it  constitutes  a kind  of  headland,  or  leading  promontory 
in  the  group  of  hills  to  which  it  belongs— a sort  of  initial  let^ 

* The  great  poets  of  Scotland,  like  the  great  poets  of  all  other  coun- 
tries, never  write  dissolutely,  either  in  matter  or  method  ; but  with 
stern  and  measured  meaning  in  every  syllable.  Here’s  a bit  of  first-rate 
work  for  example : 

“Tweed  said  to  Till, 

‘ What  gars  ye  rin  sae  still  ? * 

Till  said  to  Tweed, 

4 Though  ye  rin  wi’  speed, 

And  I rin  slaw, 

Whar  ye  droon  ae  man, 

I droon  twa.’  ” 


16 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


ter  of  the  mountains  ; and  thus  stands  in  the  mind  of  the 
habitants  of  the  district,  the  Clan  Grant,  for  a type  of  thehr 
country,  and  of  the  influence  of  that  country  upon  themselves. 
Their  sense  of  this  is  beautifully  indicated  in  the  war-cry  of 
the  clan,  “ Stand  fast,  Craig  Ellachie.”  You  may  think  long 
over  those  few  words  without  exhausting  the  deep  wells  of 
feeling  and  thought  contained  in  them — the  love  of  the 
native  land,  the  assurance  of  their  faithfulness  to  it ; the  sub- 
dued and  gentle  assertion  of  indomitable  courage — I may 
need  to  be  told  to  stand,  but,  if  I do,  Craig  Ellachie  does. 
You  could  not  but  have  felt,  had  you  passed  beneath  it  at  the 
time  when  so  many  of  England’s  dearest  children  were  being 
defended  by  the  strength  of  heart  of  men  born  at  its  foot, 
how  often  among  the  delicate  Indian  palaces,  whose  marble 
was  pallid  with  horror,  and  whose  vermilion  was  darkened 
with  blood,  the  remembrance  of  its  rough  grey  rocks  and 
purple  heaths  must  have  risen  before  the  sight  of  the  High- 
land soldier  ; how  often  the  hailing  of  the  shot  and  the  shriek 
of  battle  would  pass  away  from  his  hearing,  and  leave  only 
the  whisper  of  the  old  pine  branches — “ Stand  fast,  Craig 
Ellachie ! ” 

You  have,  in  these  two  nations,  seen  in  direct  opposition 
the  effects  on  moral  sentiment  of  art  without  nature,  and  of 
nature  without  art.  And  you  see  enough  to  justify  you  in 
suspecting — while,  if  you  choose  to  investigate  the  subject 
more  deeply  and  with  other  examples,  you  will  find  enough 
to  justify  you  in  concluding — that  art,  followed  as  such,  and 
for  its  own  sake,  irrespective  of  the  interpretation  of  nature 
by  it,  is  destructive  of  whatever  is  best  and  noblest  in  human- 
ity ; but  that  nature,  however  simply  observed,  or  imperfectly 
known,  is,  in  the  degree  of  the  affection  felt  for  it,  protective 
and  helpful  to  all  that  is  noblest  in  humanity. 

You  might  then  conclude  farther,  that  art,  so  far  as  it  was 
devoted  to  the  record  or  the  interpretation  of  nature,  would 
be  helpful  and  ennobling  also. 

And  you  would  conclude  this  with  perfect  truth.  Let  me 
repeat  the  assertion  distinctly  and  solemnly,  as  the  first  that 
I am  permitted  to  make  in  this  building,  devoted  in  a way  so 


POWER  OF  CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


17 


new  and  so  admirable  to  the  service  of  the  art-students  of 
England — Wherever  art  is  practised  for  its  own  sake,  and  the 
delight  of  the  workman  is  in  what  he  does  and  produces , in- 
stead of  what  he  interprets  or  exhibits , — there  art  has  an  influ- 
ence of  the  most  fatal  kind  on  brain  and  heart,  and  it  issues, 
if  long  so  pursued,  in  the  destruction  both  of  intellectual  power 
and  moral  principal ; whereas  art,  devoted  humbly  and  self- 
forgetfully  to  the  clear  statement  and  record  of  the  facts  of 
the  universe,  is  always  helpful  and  beneficent  to  mankind,  full 
of  comfort,  strength,  and  salvation. 

Now,  when  you  were  once  well  assured  of  this,  you  might 
logically  infer  another  thing,  namely,  that  when  Art  was  oc- 
cupied in  the  function  in  which  she  was  serviceable,  she  would 
herself  be  strengthened  by  the  service,  and  when  she  was  do- 
ing what  Providence  without  doubt  intended  her  to  do,  she 
would  gain  in  vitality  and  dignity  just  as  she  advanced  in  use- 
fulness. On  the  other  hand,  you  might  gather,  that  when 
her  agency  was  distorted  to  the  deception  or  degradation  of 
mankind,  she  would  herself  be  equally  misled  and  degraded 

that  she  would  be  checked  in  advance,  or  precipitated  in 
decline. 

And  this  is  the  truth  also ; and  holding  this  clue  you  will 
easily  and  justly  interpret  the  phenomena  of  history.  So  long 
as  Art  is  steady  in  the  contemplation  and  exhibition  of  natural 
facts,  so  long  she  herself  lives  and  grows ; and  in  her  own  life 
and  growth  partly  implies,  partly  secures,  that  of  the  nation 
in  the  midst  of  which  she  is  practised.  But  a time  has  always 
hitherto  come,  in  which,  having  thus  reached  a singular  per- 
fection, she  begins  to  contemplate  that  perfection,  and  to  im- 
itate it,  and  deduce  rules  and  forms  from  it ; and  thus  to  for- 
get her  duty  and  ministry  as  the  interpreter  and  discoverer  of 
Truth.  And  in  the  very  instant  when  this  diversion  of  her 
purpose  and  forgetfulness  of  her  function  take  place — forget- 
fulness generally  coincident  with  her  apparent  perfection — in 
that  instant,  I say,  begins  her  actual  catastrophe  ; and  by  her 
own  fall  so  far  as  she  has  influence — she  accelerates  the  ruin 
of  the  nation  by  which  she  is  practised. 

The  study,  however,  of  the  effect  of  art  on  the  mind  of  na* 


18 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


tions  is  one  rather  for  the  historian  than  for  us ; at  all  events 
it  is  one  for  the  discussion  of  which  we  have  no  more  time 
this  evening.  But  I will  ask  your  patience  with  me  while  I 
try  to  illustrate,  in  some  further  particulars,  the  dependence 
of  the  healthy  state  and  power  of  art  itself  upon  the  exercise 
of  its  appointed  function  in  the  interpretation  of  fact. 

You  observe  that  I always  say  interpretation,  never  imitation. 
My  reason  for  so  doing  is,  first,  that  good  art  rarely  imitates  ; 
it  usually  only  describes  or  explains.  But  my  second  and 
chief  reason  is  that  good  art  always  consists  of  two  things  : 
First,  the  observation  of  fact ; secondly,  the  manifesting  of 
human  design  and  authority  in  the  way  that  fact  is  told. 
Great  and  good  art  must  unite  the  two  ; it  cannot  exist  for  a 
moment  but  in  their  unity  ; it  consists  of  the  two  as  essen- 
tially as  water  consists  of  oxygen  and  hydrogen,  or  marble  of 
lime  and  carbonic  acid. 

Let  us  inquire  a little  into  the  nature  of  each  of  the  ele- 
ments. The  first  element,  we  say,  is  the  love  of  Nature,  lead- 
ing to  the  effort  to  observe  and  report  her  truly.  And  this  is 
the  first  and  leading  element.  Review  for  yourselves  the  history 
of  art,  and  you  will  find  this  to  be  a manifest  certainty,  that 
no  great  school  ever  yet  existed  which  had  not  for  primal  aim  the 
representation  of  some  natural  fact  as  truly  as  possible.  There 
have  only  yet  appeared  in  the  world  three  schools  of  perfect 
art — schools,  that  is  to  say,  that  did  their  work  as  well  as  it 
seems  possible  to  do  it.  These  are  the  Athenian,*  Florentine, 
and  Venetian.  The  Athenian  proposed  to  itself  the  perfect 
representation  of  the  form  of  the  human  body.  It  strove  to 
do  that  as  well  as  it  could  ; it  did  that  as  well  as  it  can  be 
done  ; and  all  its  greatness  was  founded  upon  and  involved  in 
that  single  and  honest  effort.  The  Florentine  school  proposed 
to  itself  the  perfect  expression  of  human  emotion— the  show- 
ing of  the  effects  of  passion  in  the  human  face  and  gesture. 
I call  this  the  Florentine  school,  because,  whether  you  take 
Raphael  for  the  culminating  master  of  expressional  art  in 
Italy,  or  Leonardo,  or  Michael  Angelo,  you  will  find  that  the 

* See  below,  the  farther  notice  of  the  real  spirit  of  Greek  work,  in  the 
address  at  Bradford. 


POWER  OF  CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


19 


whole  energy  of  the  national  effort  which  produced  those  mas- 
ters had  its  root  in  Florence  ; not  at  Urbino  or  Milan.  I say. 
then,  this  Florentine  or  leading  Italian  school  proposed  to 
itself  human  expression  for  its  aim  in  natural  truth  ; it  strove 
to  do  that  as  well  as  it  could — did  it  as  well  as  it  can  be  done 
— and  all  its  greatness  is  rooted  in  that  single  and  honest  ef- 
fort. Thirdly,  the  Venetian  school  propose  the  representation 
of  the  effect  of  colour  and  shade  on  all  things ; chiefly  on  the 
human  form.  It  tried  to  do  that  as  well  as  it  could — did  it  as 
well  as  it  can  be  done — and  all  its  greatness  is  founded  on  that 
single  and  honest  effort. 

Pray,  do  not  leave  this  room  without  a perfectly  clear  hold- 
ing of  these  three  ideas.  You  may  try  them,  and  toss  them 
about  afterwards,  as  much  as  you  like,  to  see  if  they’ll  bear 
shaking  ; but  do  let  me  put  them  well  and  plainly  into  your 
possession.  Attach  them  to  three  works  of  art  which  you  all 
have  either  seen  or  continually  heard  of.  There’s  the  (so- 
called)  “ Theseus  ” of  the  Elgin  marbles.  That  represents 
the  whole  end  and  aim  of  the  Athenian  school — the  natural 
form  of  the  human  body.  All  their  conventional  architecture 
— their  graceful  shaping  and  painting  of  pottery — whatsoever 
other  art  they  practised — was  dependent  for  its  greatness  on 
this  sheet-anchor  of  central  aim  : true  shape  of  living  man. 
Then  take,  for  your  type  of  the  Italian  school,  Raphael’s  “Dis- 
puta del  Sacramento  ; ” that  will  be  an  accepted  type  by  every- 
body, and  will  involve  no  possibly  questionable  points : the 
Germans  will  admit  it ; the  English  academicians  will  admit 
it ; and  the  English  purists  and  pre-Raphaelites  will  admit  it. 
Well,  there  you  have  the  truth  of  human  expression  proposed 
as  an  aim.  That  is  the  way  people  look  when  they  feel  this  or 
that — when  they  have  this  or  that  other  mental  character  : are 
they  devotional,  thoughtful,  affectionate,  indignant,  or  in- 
spired? are  they  prophets,  saints,  priests,  or  kings?  then — • 
whatsoever  is  truly  thoughtful,  affectionate,  prophetic,  priestly, 
kingly — that  the  Florentine  school  tried  to  discern,  and  show : 
that  they  have  discerned  and  shown  ; and  all  their  greatness 
is  first  fastened  in  their  aim  at  this  central  truth — the  open 
expression  of  the  living  human  soul. 


20 


TEE  TWO  PATES. 


Lastly,  take  Veronese's  “ Marriage  in  Cana  ” in  the  Louvre. 
There  you  have  the  most  perfect  representation  possible  of 
colour,  and  light,  and  shade,  as  they  affect  the  external  as- 
pect of  the  human  form,  and  its  immediate  accessories,  archi- 
tecture, furniture,  and  dress.  This  external  aspect  of  noblest 
nature  was  the  first  aim  of  the  Venetians,  and  all  their  great- 
ness depended  on  their  resolution  to  achieve,  and  their 
patience  in  achieving  it. 

Here,  then,  are  the  three  greatest  schools  of  the  former 
world  exemplified  for  you  in  three  well-known  works.  The 
Phidian  “ Theseus  ” represents  the  Greek  school  pursuing 
truth  of  form  ; the  “ Disputa  ” of  Raphael,  the  Florentine 
school  pursuing  truth  of  mental  expression  ; the  “ Marriage 
in  Cana,”  the  Venetian  school  pursuing  truth  of  colour  and 
light.  But  do  not  suppose  that  the  law  which  I am  stating  to 
you — the  great  law  of  art-life — can  only  be  seen  in  these,  the 
most  powerful  of  all  art  schools.  It  is  just  as  manifest  in  each 
and  every  school  that  ever  has  had  life  in  it  at  all.  Whereso- 
ever the  search  after  truth  begins,  there  life  begins  ; whereso- 
ever that  search  ceases,  there  life  ceases.  As  long  as  a school 
of  art  holds  any  chain  of  natural  facts,  trying  to  discover  more 
of  them  and  express  them  better  daily,  it  may  play  hither  and 
thither  as  it  likes  on  this  side  of  the  chain  or  that ; it  may  de- 
design grotesques  and  conventionalisms,  build  the  simplest 
buildings,  serve  the  most  practical  utilities,  yet  all  it  does  will 
be  gloriously  designed  and  gloriously  done ; but  let  it  once 
quit  hold  of  the  chain  of  natural  fact,  cease  to  pursue  that 
as  the  clue  to  its  work  ; let  it  propose  to  itself  any  other  end 
than  preaching  this  living  word,  and  think  first  of  showing  its 
own  skill  or  its  own  fancy,  and  from  that  hour  its  fall  is  pre- 
cipitate— its  destruction  sure  ; nothing  that  it  does  or  designs 
will  ever  have  life  or  loveliness  in  it  more  ; its  hour  has  come, 
and  there  is  no  work,  nor  device,  nor  knowledge,  nor  wisdom 
in  the  grave  whither  it  goeth. 

Let  us  take  for  example  that  school  of  art  over  which  many 
of  you  would  perhaps  think  this  law  had  but  little  power — . 
the  school  of  Gothic  architecture.  Many  of  us  may  have  been 
in  the  habit  of  thinking  of  that  school  rather  as  of  one  of 


POWER  OF  CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


21 


forms  than  of  facts — a school  of  pinnacles,  and  buttresses, 
and  conventional  mouldings,  and  disguise  of  nature  by  mon- 
strous imaginings— not  a school  of  truth  at  all.  I think  I 
shall  be  able,  even  in  the  little  time  we  have  to-night,  to  show 
that  this  is  not  so  ; and  that  our  great  law  holds  just  as  good 
at  Amiens  and  Salisbury,  as  it  does  at  Athens  and  Florence. 

I will  go  back  then  first  to  the  very  beginnings  of  Gothic 
art,  and  before  you,  the  students  of  Kensington,  as  an  impan- 
elled jury,  I will  bring  two  examples  of  the  barbarism  out  of 
which  Gothic  art  emerges,  approximately  contemporary  in 
date  and  parallel  in  executive  skill ; but,  the  one,  a barbarism 
that  did  not  get  on,  and  could  not  get  on  ; the  other,  a bar- 
barism that  could  get  on,  and  did  get  on  ; and  you,  the  im- 
panelled jury,  shall  judge  what  is  the  essential  difference  be- 
tween the  two  barbarisms,  and  decide  for  yourselves  what 
is  the  seed  of  life  in  the  one,  and  the  sign  of  death  in  the 
other. 

The  first, — that  which  has  in  it  the  sign  of  death, — fur- 
nishes us  at  the  same  time  with  an  illustration  far  too  inter- 
esting to  be  passed  by,  of  certain  principles  much  depended 
on  by  our  common  modern  designers.  Taking  up  one  of  our 
architectural  publications  the  other  day,  and  opening  it  at 
random,  I chanced  upon  this  piece  of  information,  put  in 
rather  curious  English  ; but  you  shall  have  it  as  it  stands— 

“ Aristotle  asserts,  that  the  greatest  species  of  the  beautiful 
are  Order,  Symmetry,  and  the  Definite.” 

I should  tell  you,  however,  that  this  statement  is  not  given 
as  authoritative  ; it  is  one  example  of  various  Architectural 
teachings,  given  in  a report  in  the  Building  Chronicle  for  May, 
1857,  of  a lecture  on  Proportion  ; in  which  the  only  thing  the 
lecturer  appears  to  have  proved  was  that, — 

“ The  system  of  dividing  the  diameter  of  the  shaft  of  a col- 
umn into  parts  for  copying  the  ancient  architectural  remains 
of  Greece  and  Koine,  adopted  by  architects  from  Vitruvius 
(circa  b.c.  25)  to  the  present  period,  as  a method  for  produc- 
ing ancient  architecture,  is  entirely  useless , for  the  several  parts 
of  Grecian  architecture  cannot  be  reduced  or  subdivided  by 
this  system  ; neither  does  it  apply  to  the  architecture  of  Koma 


22 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


Still,  as  far  as  I can  make  it  out,  the  lecture  appears  to 
have  been  one  of  those  of  which  you  will  just  at  present  heai 
so  many,  the  protests  of  architects  who  have  no  knowledge 
of  sculpture — or  of  any  other  mode  of  expressing  natural 
beauty — against  natural  beauty  ; and  their  endeavour  to  sub- 
stitute mathematical  proportions  for  the  knowledge  of  life 
they  do  not  possess,  and  the  representation  of  life  of  which 
they  are  incapable.  Now,  this  substitution  of  obedience  to 
mathematical  law  for  sympathy  with 
observed  life,  is  the  first  characteris- 
tic of  the  hopeless  work  of  all  ages  ; 
as  such,  you  will  find  it  eminently 
manifested  in  the  specimen  I have  to 
give  you  of  the  hopeless  Gothic  bar- 
barism ; the  barbarism  from  which 
nothing  could  emerge — for  which  no 
future  was  possible  but  extinction. 
The  Aristotelian  principles  of  the 
Beautiful  are,  you  remember,  Order, 
Symmetry,  and  the  Definite.  Here 
you  have  the  three,  in  perfection,  applied  to  the  ideal  of  an 
angel,  in  a psalter  of  the  eighth  century,  existing  in  the  li- 
brary of  St.  John’s  College,  Cambridge.* 

Now,  you  see  the  characteristics  of  this  utterly  dead  school 
are,  first  the  wilful  closing  of  its  eyes  to  natural  facts ; — for, 
however  ignorant  a person  may  be,  he  need  only  look  at  a 
human  being  to  see  that  it  has  a mouth  as  well  as  eyes  ; and 
secondly,  the  endeavour  to  adorn  or  idealize  natural  fact  ac- 
cording to  its  own  notions  : it  puts  red  spots  in  the  middle 
of  the  hands,  and  sharpens  the  thumbs,  thinking  to  improve 
them.  Here  you  have  the  most  pure  type  possible  of  the 
principles  of  idealism  in  all  ages  : whenever  people  don’t  look 
at  Nature,  they  always  think  they  can  improve  her.  You  will 
also  admire,  doubtless,  the  exquisite  result  of  the  application 
of  our  great  modern  architectural  principle  of  beauty — sym- 
metry, or  equal  balance  of  part  by  part ; you  see  even  the  eyes 


* I copy  this  woodcut  from  Westwood’s  “ Palaeographia  Sacra.’ 


POWER  OF  CONVENTIONAL  ART.  23 

are  made  symmetrical — entirely  round,  instead  of  irregular, 
oval ; and  the  iris  is  set  properly  in  the  middle,  instead  of— 
as  nature  has  absurdly  put  it— rather  under  the  upper  lid. 
You  will  also  observe  the  “principle  of  the  pyramid”  in  the 
general  arrangement  of  the  figure,  and  the  value  of  “ series  ” 
in  the  placing  of  dots. 

From  this  dead  barbarism  we  pass  to  living  barbarism to 

work  done  by  hands  quite  as  rude,  if  not  ruder,  and  by  minds 
as  uninformed  ; and  yet  work  which  in  every  line  of  it  is 
prophetic  of  power,  and  has  in  it  the  sure  dawn  of  day.  You 
have  often  heard  it  said  that  Giotto  was  the  founder  of  art  in 
Italy.  He  was  not : neither  he,  nor  Giunta  Pisano,  nor  Nic- 
colo  Pisano.  They  all  laid  strong  hands  to  the  work,  and 
brought  it  first  into  aspect  above  ground  ; but  the  foundation 
had  been  laid  for  them  by  the  builders  of  the  Lombardic 
churches  in  the  valleys  of  the  Adda  and  the  Arno.  It  is  in 
the  sculpture  of  the  round  arched  churches  of  North  Italy, 
bearing  disputable  dates,  ranging  from  the  eighth  to  the  twelfth 
century,  that  you  will  find  the  lowest  struck  roots  of  the  art 
of  Titian  and  Raphael.*  I go,  therefore,  to  the  church  which 
is  certainly  the  earliest  of  these,  St.  Ambrogio,  of  Milan,  said 
still  to  retain  some  portions  of  the  actual  structure  from  which 
St.  Ambrose  excluded  Theodosius,  and  at  all  events  furnishing 
the  most  archaic  examples  of  Lombardic  sculpture  in  North 
Italy.  I do  not  venture  to  guess  their  date  ; they  are  barba- 
rous enough  for  any  date. 

We  find  the  pulpit  of  this  church  covered  with  interlacing 
patterns,  closely  resembling  those  of  the  manuscript  at  Cam- 
bridge, but  among  them  is  figure  sculpture  of  a very  differ- 
ent kind.  It  is  wrought  with  mere  incisions  in  the  stone,  of 
which  the  effect  may  be  tolerably  given  by  single  lines  in  a 
drawing.  Remember,  therefore,  for  a moment— as  character- 
istic of  culminating  Italian  art— Michael  Angelo’s  fresco  of 
the  ‘ Temptation  of  Eve,”  in  the  Sistine  chapel,  and  you  will 
be  more  interested  in  seeing  the  birth  of  Italian  art,  illus- 

* I have  said  elsewhere,  “ the  root  of  all  art  is  struck  in  the  thirteenth 
century.  This  is  quite  true  : hut  of  course  some  of  the  smallest  fibres 
run  lower,  as  in  this  instance. 


24 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


trated  by  the  same  subject,  from  St,  Ambrogio,  of  Milan,  the 
“ Serpent  beguiling  Eve.”  * 

Yet,  in  that  sketch,  rude  and  ludicrous  as  it  is,  you  have 
the  elements  of  life  in  their  first  form.  The  people  who  could 
do  that  were  sure  to  get  on.  For,  observe,  the  workman’s 
wThole  aim  is  straight  at  the  facts,  as  well  as  he  can  get  them ; 
and  not  merely  at  the  facts,  but  at  the  very  heart  of  the  facts. 
A common  workman  might  have  looked  at  nature  for  his  ser- 
pent, but  he  would  have  thought  only  of  its  scales.  But  this 
fellow  does  not  want  scales,  nor  coils  ; he  can  do  without 


them  ; he  wants  the  serpent’s  heart — malice  and  insinuation ; 
— and  he  has  actually  got  them  to  some  extent.  So  also  a 
common  workman,  even  in  this  barbarous  stage  of  art,  might 
have  carved  Eve’s  arms  and  body  a good  deal  better  ; but  this 
man  does  not  care  about  arms  and  body,  if  he  can  only  get  at 
Eve’s  mind — show  that  she  is  pleased  at  being  flattered,  and 
yet  in  a state  of  uncomfortable  hesitation.  And  some  look  of 
listening,  of  complacency,  and  of  embarrassment  he  has  verily 
got : — note  the  eyes  slightly  askance,  the  lips  compressed,  and 
the  right  hand  nervously  grasping  the  left  arm  : nothing  can 
be  declared  impossible  to  the  people  who  could  begin  thus — 
the  world  is  open  to  them,  and  all  that  is  in  it ; while,  on  the 

* This  cut  is  ruder  than  it  should  be  : the  incisions  in  the  marble 
have  a lighter  effect  than  these  rough  black  lines  ; but  it  is  not  worth 
while  to  do  it  better. 


POWER  OF  CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


25 


contrary,  nothing  is  possible  to  the  man  who  did  the  symmet- 
rical angel — the  world  is  keyless  to  him  ; he  has  built  a cell 
for  himself  in  which  he  must  abide,  barred  up  for  ever — there 
is  no  more  hope  for  him  than  for  a sponge  or  a madrepore. 

I shall  not  trace  from  this  embryo  the  progress  of  Gothic 
art  in  Italy,  because  it  is  much  complicated  and  involved  with 
traditions  of  other  schools,  and  because  most  of  the  students 
will  be  less  familiar  with  its  results  than  with  their  own 
northern  buildings.  So,  these  two  designs  indicating  Death 
and  Life  in  the  beginnings  of  mediaeval  art,  we  will  take  an 
example  of  the  progress  of  that  art  from  our  northern  work. 
Now,  many  of  you,  doubtless,  have  been  interested  by  the 
mass,  grandeur,  and  gloom  of  Norman  architecture,  as  much 
as  by  Gothic  traceries  ; and  when  you  hear  me  say  that  the 
root  of  all  good  work  lies  in  natural  facts,  you  doubtless  think 
instantly  of  your  round  arches,  with  their  rude  cushion  capi- 
tals, and  of  the  billet  or  zigzag  work  by  which  they  are  sur- 
rounded, and  you  cannot  see  what  the  knowledge  of  nature 
has  to  do  with  either  the  simple  plan  or  the  rude  mouldings. 
But  all  those  simple  conditions  of  Norman  art  are  merely  the 
expiring  of  it  towards  the  extreme  north.  Do  not  study  Nor- 
man architecture  in  Northumberland,  but  in  Normandy,  and 
then  you  will  find  that  it  is  just  a peculiarly  manly,  and 
practically  useful,  form  of  the  whole  great  French  school  of 
rounded  architecture.  And  where  has  that  French  school  its 
origin  ? Wholly  in  the  rich  conditions  of  sculpture,  which, 
rising  first  out  of  imitations  of  the  Roman  bas-reliefs,  cov- 
ered all  the  fa9ades  of  the  French  early  churches  with  one 
continuous  arabesque  of  floral  or  animal  life.  If  you  want  to 
study  round-arched  buildings,  do  not  go  to  Durham,  but  go 
to  Poictiers,  and  there  you  will  see  how  all  the  simple  deco- 
rations which  give  you  so  much  pleasure  even  in  their  isolated 
application  were  invented  by  persons  practised  in  carving 
men,  monsters,  wild  animals,  birds,  and  flowers,  in  overwhelm- 
ing redundance  ; and  then  trace  this  architecture  forward  in 
central  France,  and  you  will  find  it  loses  nothing  of  its  rich- 
ness— it  only  gains  in  truth,  and  therefore  in  grace,  until  just 
at  the  moment  of  transition  into  the  pointed  style,  you  have 


26 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


the  consummate  type  of  the  sculpture  of  the  school  given  you 
in  the  west  front  of  the  Cathedral  of  Chartres.  From  that 
front  I have  chosen  two  fragments  to  illustrate  it.* 

These  statues  have  been  long,  and  justly,  considered  as 
representative  of  the  highest  skill  of  the  twelfth  or  earliest 
part  of  the  thirteenth  century  in  France  ; and  they  indeed 
possess  a dignity  and  delicate  charm,  which  are  for  the  most 
part  wanting  in  later  works.  It  is  owing  partly  to  real  noble- 
ness of  feature,  but  chiefly  to  the  grace,  mingled  with  sever- 
ity, of  the  falling  lines  of  excessively  thin  drapery  ; as  well  as 
to  a most  studied  finish  in  composition,  every  part  of  the  or- 
namentation tenderly  harmonizing  with  the  rest.  So  far  as 
their  power  over  certain  tones  of  religious  mind  is  owing  to  a 
palpable  degree  of  non-naturalism  in  them,  I do  not  praise  it 
— the  exaggerated  thinness  of  body  and  stiffness  of  attitude 
are  faults ; but  they  are  noble  faults,  and  give  the  statues  a 
strange  look  of  forming  part  of  the  very  building  itself,  and 
sustaining  it — not  like  the  Greek  caryatid,  without  effort — 
nor  like  the  Renaissance  caryatid,  by  painful  or  impossible 
effort — but  as  if  all  that  was  silent  and  stern,  and  withdrawn 
apart,  and  stiffened  in  chill  of  heart  against  the  terror  of 
earth,  had  passed  into  a shape  of  eternal  marble  ; and  thus 
the  Ghost  had  given,  to  bear  up  the  pillars  of  the  church  on 
earth,  all  the  patient  and  expectant  nature  that  it  needed  no 
more  in  heaven.  This  is  the  transcendental  view  of  the  mean- 
ing of  those  sculptures.  I do  not  dwell  upon  it.  What  I do 
lean  upon  is  their  purely  naturalistic  and  vital  power.  They 
are  all  portraits — unknown,  most  of  them,  I believe, — but 
palpably  and  unmistakeably  portraits,  if  not  taken  from  the 
actual  person  for  whom  the  statue  stands,  at  all  events  stud- 
ied from  some  living  person  whose  features  might  fairly  rep- 
resent those  of  the  king  or  saint  intended.  Several  of  them  I 

* This  part  of  the  lecture  was  illustrated  by  two  drawings,  made  ad- 
mirably by  Mr.  J.  T.  Laing,  with  the  help  of  photographs  from  statues 
at  Chartres.  The  drawings  may  be  seen  at  present  at  the  Kensington 
Museum  : but  any  large  photograph  of  the  west  front  of  Chartres  will 
enable  the  reader  to  follow  what  is  stated  in  the  lecture,  as  far  as  is 
needful. 


POWER  OF  CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


27 


suppose  to  be  authentic : there  is  one  of  a queen,  who  has 
evidently,  while  she  lived,  been  notable  for  her  bright  black 
eyes.  The  sculptor  has  cut  the  iris  deep  into  the  stone,  and 
her  dark  eyes  are  still  suggested  with  her  smile. 

There  is  another  thing  I wish  you  to  notice  specially  in 
these  statues — the  way  in  which  the  floral  moulding  is  asso- 
ciated with  the  vertical  lines  of  the  figure.  You  have  thus 
the  utmost  complexity  and  richness  of  curvature  set  side  by 
side  with  the  pure  and  delicate  parallel  lines,  and  both  the 
characters  gain  in  interest  and  beauty ; but  there  is  deeper 
significance  in  the  thing  than  that  of  mere  effect  in  composi- 
tion ; — significance  not  intended  on  the  part  of  the  sculptor, 
but  all  the  more  valuable  because  unintentional.  I mean  the 
close  association  of  the  beauty  of  lower  nature  in  animals  and 
flowers,  with  the  beauty  of  higher  nature  in  human  form. 
You  never  get  this  in  Greek  work.  Greek  statues  are  always 
isolated  ; blank  fields  of  stone,  or  depths  of  shadow,  relieving 
the  form  of  the  statue,  as  the  world  of  lower  nature  which 
they  despised  retired  in  darkness  from  their  hearts.  Here, 
the  clothed  figure  seems  the  type  of  the  Christian  spirit — in 
many  respects  feebler  and  more  contracted — but  purer; 
clothed  in  its  white  robes  and  crown,  and  with  the  riches  of 
all  creation  at  its  side. 

The  next  step  in  the  change  will  be  set  before  you  in  a 
moment,  merely  by  comparing  this  statue  from  the  west  front 
of  Chartres  with  that  of  the  Madonna,  from  the  south  transept 
door  of  Amiens.* 

This  Madonna,  with  the  sculpture  round  her,  represents 
the  culminating  power  of  Gothic  art  in  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury. Sculpture  has  been  gaining  continually  in  the  interval ; 
gaining,  simply  because  becoming  every  day  more  truthful, 
more  tender,  and  more  suggestive.  By  the  way,  the  old 
Douglas  motto,  “Tender  and  true,”  may  wisely  be  taken  up 
again  by  all  of  us,  for  our  own,  in  art  no  less  than  in  other 
things.  Depend  upon  it,  the  first  universal  characteristic  of 

* There  are  many  photographs  of  this  door  and  of  its  central  statue. 
Its  sculpture  in  the  tympanum  is  farther  described  in  the  Fourth  Lec- 
ture. 


28 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


all  great  art  is  Tenderness,  as  tlie  second  is  Truth.  I find 
this  more  and  more  every  day : an  infinitude  of  tenderness  is 
the  chief  gift  and  inheritance  of  all  the  truly  great  men.  It 
is  sure  to  involve  a relative  intensity  of  disdain  towards  base 
things,  and  an  appearance  of  sternness  and  arrogance  in  the 
eyes  of  all  hard,  stupid,  and  vulgar  people — quite  terrific  to 
such,  if  they  are  capable  of  terror,  and  hateful  to  them,  if  they 
are  capable  of  nothing  higher  than  hatred.  Dante’s  is  the 
great  type  of  this  class  of  mind.  I say  the  first  inheritance  is 
Tenderness — the  second  Truth,  because  the  Tenderness  is  in 
the  make  of  the  creature,  the  Truth  in  his  acquired  habits 
and  knowledge  ; besides,  the  love  comes  first  in  dignity  as 
well  as  in  time,  and  that  is  always  pure  and  complete : the 
truth,  at  best,  imperfect. 

To  come  back  to  our  statue.  You  will  observe  that  the  ar- 
rangement of  this  sculpture  is  exactly  the  same  as  at  Chartres 
— severe  falling  drapery,  set  off  by  rich  floral  ornament  at  the 
side  ; but  the  statue  is  now  completely  animated  : it  is  no 
longer  fixed  as  an  upright  pillar,  but  bends  aside  out  of  its 
niche,  and  the  floral  ornament,  instead  of  being  a conventional 
wreath,  is  of  exquisitely  arranged  hawthorn.  The  work,  how- 
ever, as  a whole,  though  perfectly  characteristic  of  the  advance 
of  the  age  in  style  and  purpose,  is  in  some  subtler  qualities 
inferior  to  that  of  Chartres.  The  individual  sculptor,  though 
trained  in  a more  advanced  school,  has  been  himself  a man  of 
inferior  order  of  mind  compared  to  the  one  who  worked  at 
Chartres.  But  I have  not  time  to  point  out  to  you  the  subtler 
characters  by  which  I know  this. 

This  statue,  then,  marks  the  culminating  point  of  Gothic 
art,  because,  up  to  this  time,  the  eyes  of  its  designers  had 
been  steadily  fixed  on  natural  truth — they  had  been  advanc- 
ing from  flower  to  flower,  from  form  to  form,  from  face  to 
face, — gaining  perpetually  in  knowledge  and  veracity — there- 
fore, perpetually  in  power  and  in  grace.  But  at  this  point  a 
fatal  change  came  over  their  aim.  From  the  statue  they  now 
began  to  turn  the  attention  chiefly  to  the  niche  of  the  statue, 
and  from  the  floral  ornament  to  the  mouldings  that  enclosed 
the  floral  ornament.  The  first  result  of  this  was,  however, 


POWER  OF  CONVENTIONAL  ART.  29 

though  not  the  grandest,  yet  the  most  finished  of  northern 
genius.  You  have,  in  the  earlier  Gothic,  less  wonderful  con- 
struction, less  careful  masonry,  far  less  expression  of  harmony  of 
parts  in  the  balance  of  the  building.  Earlier  work  always  has 
more  or  less  of  the  character  of  a good  solid  wall  with  irregular 
holes  in  it,  well  carved  wherever  there  is  room.  But  the  last 
phase  of  good  Gothic  has  no  room  to  spare ; it  rises  as  high  as  it 
can  on  narrowest  foundation,  stands  in  perfect  strength  with 
the  least  possible  substance  in  its  bars ; connects  niche  with 
niche,  and  line  with  line,  in  an  exquisite  harmony,  from  which 
no  stone  can  be  removed,  and  to  which  you  can  add  not  a pin- 
nacle ; and  yet  introduces  in  rich,  though  now  more  calculated 
profusion,  the  living  element  of  its  sculpture : sculpture  in 
the  quatrefoils — sculpture  in  the  brackets — sculpture  in  the 
gargoyles— sculpture  in  the  niches— sculpture  in  the  ridges 
and  hollows  of  its  mouldings, — not  a shadow  without  meaning, 
and  not  a light  without  life.*  But  with  this  very  perfection 
of  his  work  came  the  unhappy  pride  of  the  builder  in  what  he 
had  done.  As  long  as  he  had  been  merely  raising  clumsy 
walls  and  carving  them  like  a child,  in  waywardness  of  fancy, 
his  delight  was  in  the  things  he  thought  of  as  he  carved  ; but 
when  he  had  once  reached  this  pitch  of  constructive  science, 
he  began  to  think  only  how  cleverly  he  could  put  the  stones 
together.  The  question  was  not  now  with  him,  What  can  I 
represent  ? but,  How  high  can  I build — how  wonderfull}'  can 
I hang  this  arch  in  air,  or  weave  this  tracery  across  the 
clouds  ? And  the  catastrophe  was  instant  and  irrevocable. 
Architecture  became  in  France  a mere  web  of  waving  lines, 
— in  England  a mere  grating  of  perpendicular  ones.  Re- 
dundance was  substituted  for  invention,  and  geometry  for 
passion ; tho  Gothic  art  became  a mere  expression  of  wanton 
expenditure,  and  vulgar  mathematics ; and  was  swept  away, 
as  it  then  deserved  to  be  swept  away,  by  the  severer  pride, 

* The  two  transepts  of  Rouen  Cathedral  illustrate  this  style.  There 
are  plenty  of  photographs  of  them.  I take  this  opportunity  of  repeat- 
ing what  I have  several  times  before  stated,  for  the  sake  of  travellers, 
that  St.  Ouen,  impressive  as  it  is,  is  entirely  inferior  to  the  transepts  of 
Rouen  Cathedral. 


30 


TEE  TWO  PATHS. 


and  purer  learning,  of  the  schools  founded  on  classical  tradi- 
tions. 

You  cannot  now  fail  to  see  how,  throughout  the  history  of 
this  wonderful  art — from  its  earliest  dawn  in  Lombardy  to  its 
last  catastrophe  in  France  and  England — sculpture,  founded 
on  love  of  nature,  was  the  talisman  of  its  existence  ; wherever 
sculpture  was  practised,  architecture  arose — wherever  that 
was  neglected,  architecture  expired  ; and,  believe  me,  all  you 
students  who  love  this  mediaeval  art,  there  is  no  hope  of  your 
ever  doing  any  good  with  it,  but  on  this  everlasting  principle. 
Your  patriotic  associations  with  it  are  of  no  use  ; your  roman- 
tic associations  with  it — either  of  chivalry  or  religion — are  of 
no  use  ; they  are  worse  than  useless,  they  are  false.  Gothic 
is  not  an  art  for  knights  and  nobles  ; it  is  an  art  for  the  peo- 
ple : it  is  not  an  art  for  churches  or  sanctuaries  ; it  is  an  art 
for  houses  and  homes  : it  is  not  an  art  for  England  only,  but 
an  art  for  the  world  : above  all,  it  is  not  an  art  of  form  or 
tradition  only,  but  an  art  of  vital  practice  and  perpetual  re- 
newal. And  whosoever  pleads  for  it  as  an  ancient  or  a formal 
thing,  and  tries  to  teach  it  you  as  an  ecclesiastical  tradition 
or  a geometrical  science,  knows  nothing  of  its  essence,  less 
than  nothing  of  its  power. 

Leave,  therefore,  boldly,  though  not  irreverently,  mysticism 
and  symbolism  on  the  one  side  ; cast  away  with  utter  scorn 
geometry  and  legalism  on  the  other  ; seize  hold  of  God’s  hand 
and  look  full  in  the  face  of  His  creation,  and  there  is  nothing 
He  will  not  enable  you  to  achieve. 

Thus,  then,  you  will  find — and  the  more  profound  and  accu- 
rate your  knowledge  of  the  history  of  art  the  more  assuredly 
you  will  find — that  the  living  power  in  all  the  real  schools,  be 
they  great  or  small,  is  love  of  nature.  But  do  not  mistake  me 
by  supposing  that  I mean  this  law  to  be  all  that  is  necessary 
to  form  a school.  There  needs  to  be  much  superadded  to  it, 
though  there  never  must  be  anything  superseding  it.  The 
main  thing  which  needs  to  be  superadded  is  the  gift  of  design. 

It  is  always  dangerous,  and  liable  to  diminish  the  clearness 
of  impression,  to  go  over  much  ground  in  the  course  of  one 
lecture.  But  I dare  not  present  you  with  a maimed  view  of 


POWER  OF  CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


31 


this  important  subject : I dare  not  put  off  to  another  time, 
when  the  same  persons  would  not  be  again  assembled,  the 
statement  of  the  great  collateral  necessity  which,  as  well  as 
the  necessity  of  truth,  governs  all  noble  art. 

That  collateral  necessity  is  the  visible  operation  of  human 
intellect  in  the  presentation  of  truth , the  evidence  of  what  is 
properly  called  design  or  plan  in  the  work,  no  less  than  of 
veracity.  A looking-glass  does  not  design — it  receives  and 
communicates  indiscriminately  all  that  passes  before  it ; a 
painter  designs  when  he  chooses  some  things,  refuses  others, 
and  arranges  all. 

This  selection  and  arrangement  must  have  influence  over 
everything  that  the  art  is  concerned  with,  great  or  small — 
over  lines,  over  colours,  and  over  ideas.  Given  a certain 
group  of  colours,  by  adding  another  colour  at  the  side  of 
them,  you  will  either  improve  the  group  and  render  it  more 
delightful,  or  injure  it,  and  render  it  discordant  and  unintel- 
ligible. “ Design  ” is  the  choosing  and  placing  the  colour  so 
as  to  help  and  enhance  all  the  other  colours  it  is  set  beside. 
So  of  thoughts  : in  a good  composition,  every  idea  is  pre- 
sented in  just  that  order,  and  with  just  that  force,  which  will 
perfectly  connect  it  with  all  the  other  thoughts  in  the  work, 
and  will  illustrate  the  others  as  well  as  receive  illustration 
from  them ; so  that  the  entire  chain  of  thoughts  offered  to 
the  beholder’s  mind  shall  be  received  by  him  with  as  much 
delight  and  with  as  little  effort  as  is  possible.  And  thus  you 
see  design,  properly  so  called,  is  human  invention,  consulting 
human  capacity.  Out  of  the  infinite  heap  of  things  around  us 
in  the  world,  it  chooses  a certain  number  which  it  can  thor- 
oughly grasp,  and  presents  this  group  to  the  spectator  in  the 
form  best  calculated  to  enable  him  to  grasp  it  also,  and  to 
grasp  it  with  delight. 

And  accordingly,  the  capacities  of  both  gatherer  and  re- 
ceiver being  limited,  the  object  is  to  make  everything  that  you 
offer  helpful  and  precious.  If  you  give  one  grain  of  weight 
too  much,  so.  as  to  increase  fatigue  without  profit,  or  bulk 
without  value — that  added  grain  is  hurtful ; if  you  put  one 
spot  or  one  syllable  out  of  its  proper  place,  that  spot  or  syllar 


32 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


ble  will  be  destructive— bow  far  destructive  it  is  almost  im- 
possible to  tell : a misplaced  touch  may  sometimes  annihilate 
the  labour  of  hours.  Nor  are  any  of  us  prepared  to  under- 
stand the  work  of  any  great  master,  till  we  feel  this,  and  feel 
it  as  distinctly  as  we  do  the  value  of  arrangement  in  the  notes 
of  music.  Take  any  noble  musical  air,  and  you  find,  on  exam- 
ining it,  that  not  one  even  of  the  faintest  or  shortest  notes  can 
be  removed  without  destruction  to  the  whole  passage  in  which 
it  occurs  ; and  that  every  note  in  the  passage  is  twenty  times 
more  beautiful  so  introduced,  than  it  would  have  been  if 
played  singly  on  the  instrument.  Precisely  this  degree  of 
arrangement  and  relation  must  exist  between  every  touch* 
and  line  in  a great  picture.  You  may  consider  the  whole  as 
a prolonged  musical  composition  : its  parts,  as  separate  airs 
connected  in  the  story  ; its  little  bits  and  fragments  of  colour 
and  line,  as  separate  passages  or  bars  in  melodies  ; and  down 
to  the  minutest  note  of  the  whole — down  to  the  minutest 
touch , — if  there  is  one  that  can  be  spared — that  one  is  doing 
mischief. 

Remember  therefore  always,  you  have  two  characters  in 
which  all  greatness  of  art  consists : — First,  the  earnest  and 
intense  seizing  of  natural  facts  ; then  the  ordering  those  facts 
by  strength  of  human  intellect,  so  as  to  make  them,  for  all 
who  look  upon  them,  to  the  utmost  serviceable,  memorable, 
and  beautiful.  And  thus  great  art  is  nothing  else  than  the 
type  of  strong  and  noble  life  ; for,  as  the  ignoble  person,  in 
his  dealings  with  all  that  occurs  in  the  world  about  him,  first 
sees  nothing  clearly,— looks  nothing  fairly  in  the  face,  and 
then  allows  himself  to  be  swept  away  by  the  trampling  tor- 
rent, and  unescapable  force,  of  the  things  that  he  would  not 
foresee,  and  could  not  understand : so  the  noble  person,  look- 
ing the  facts  of  the  world  full  in  the  face,  and  fathoming  them 
with  deep  faculty,  then  deals  with  them  in  unalarmed  intelli- 
gence and  unhurried  strength,  and  becomes,  with  his  human 
intellect  and  will,  no  unconscious  nor  insignificant  agent,  in 
consummating  their  good,  and  restraining  their  evil. 

* Literally.  I know  how  exaggerated  this  statement  sounds  ; but  I 
mean  it, — every  syllable  of  it. — See  Appendix  IV. 


POWER  OF  CONVENTIONAL  ART.  33 

Thus  in  human  life  you  have  the  two  fields  of  rightful  toil 
for  ever  distinguished,  yet  for  ever  associated  ; Truth  first- 
plan  or  design,  founded  thereon ; so  in  art,  you  have  the  same 
two  fields  for  ever  distinguished,  for  ever  associated  ; Truth 
first — plan,  or  design,  founded  thereon. 

Now  hitherto  there  is  not  the  least  difficulty  in  the  subject ; 
none  of  you  can  look  for  a moment  at  any  great  sculptor  or 
painter  without  seeing  the  full  bearing  of  these  principles. 
But  a difficulty  arises  when  you  come  to  examine  the  art  of  a 
lowei  older,  concerned  with  furniture  and  manufacture,  for  in 
that  art  the  element  of  design  enters  without,  apparently,  the 
element  of  truth.  You  have  often  to  obtain  beauty  and  dis- 
play invention  without  direct  representation  of  nature.  Yet, 
respecting  all  these  things  also,  the  principle  is  perfectly  sim- 
ple. If  the  designer  of  furniture,  of  cups  and  vases,  of  dress 
patterns,  and  the  like,  exercises  himself  continually  in  the 
imitation  of  natural  form  in  some  leading  division  of  his  work  ; 
then,  holding  by  this  stem  of  life,  he  may  pass  down  into  all 
kinds  of  merely  geometrical  or  formal  design  with  perfect 
safety,  and  with  noble  results.*  Thus  Giotto,  being  prima- 
rily a figure  painter  and  sculptor,  is,  secondarily,  the  richest 
of  all  designers  in  mere  mosaic  of  coloured  bars  and  triangles ; 
thus  Benvenuto  Cellini,  being  in  all  the  higher  branches  of 
metal  work  a perfect  imitator  of  nature,  is  in  all  its  lower 
branches  the  best  designer  of  curve  for  lips  of  cups  and  han- 
dles of  vases  ; thus  Holbein,  exercised  primarily  in  the  noble 
art  of  truthful  portraiture,  becomes,  secondarily,  the  most  ex- 
quisite designer  of  embroideries  of  robe,  and  blazonries  on 
■*\all , and  thus  Michael  Angelo,  exercised  primarily  in  the 
drawing  of  body  and  limb,  distributes  in  the  mightiest  masses 
the  order  of  his  pillars,  and  in  the  loftiest  shadow  the  hollows 
of  his  dome.  But  once  quit  hold  of  this  living  stem,  and  set 
yourself  to  the  designing  of  ornamentation,  either  in  the  ig- 
norant play  of  your  own  heartless  fancy,  as  the  Indian  does, 
or  according  to  received  application  of  heartless  laws,  as  the 
modern  European  does,  and  there  is  but  one  word  for  you— 

* This  principle,  here  cursorily  stated,  is  one  of  the  chief  subjects  of 
inquiry  in  the  following  Lectures. 


34 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


Death : — death  of  every  healthy  faculty,  and  of  every  noble 
intelligence,  incapacity  of  understanding  one  great  work  that 
man  has  ever  done,  or  of  doing  anything  that  it  shall  be  help- 
ful for  him  to  behold.  You  have  cut  yourselves  off  volunta- 
rily, presumptuously,  insolently,  from  the  whole  teaching  of 
your  Maker  in  His  Universe ; you  have  cut  yourselves  off  from 
it,  not  because  you  were  forced  to  mechanical  labour  for  your 
bread — not  because  your  fate  had  appointed  you  to  wear  away 
your  life  in  walled  chambers,  or  dig  your  life  out  of  dusty 
furrows  ; but,  when  your  wThole  profession,  your  whole  occu- 
pation— all  the  necessities  and  chances  of  your  existence,  led 
you  straight  to  the  feet  of  the  great  Teacher,  and  thrust  you 
into  the  treasury  of  His  works  ; where  you%  have  nothing  to 
do  but  to  live  by  gazing,  and  to  grow  by  wondering ; — wilfully 
you  bind  up  your  eyes  from  the  splendour — wilfully  bind  up 
your  life-blood  from  its  beating — wilfully  turn  your  backs 
upon  all  the  majesties  of  Omnipotence — wilfully  snatch  your 
hands  from  all  the  aids  of  love ; and  what  can  remain  for  you> 
but  helplessness  and  blindness, — except  the  worse  fate  than 
the  being  blind  yourselves — that  of  becoming  Leaders  of  the 
blind? 

Do  not  think  that  I am  speaking  under  excited  feeling,  or 
in  any  exaggerated  terms.  I have  written  the  words  I use, 
that  I may  know  what  I say,  and  that  you,  if  you  choose,  may 
see  what  I have  said.  For,  indeed,  I have  set  before  you  to- 
night, to  the  best  of  my  power,  the  sum  and  substance  of  the 
system  of  art  to  the  promulgation  of  which  I have  devoted 
my  life  hitherto,  and  intend  to  devote  what  of  life  may  still  be 
spared  to  me.  I have  had  but  one  steady  aim  in  all  that  I 
have  ever  tried  to  teach,  namely — to  declare  that  whatever  was 
great  in  human  art  was  the  expression  of  man’s  delight  in 
God’s  work. 

And  at  this  time  I have  endeavoured  to  prove  to  you — if 
you  investigate  the  subject  you  may  more  entirely  prove  to 
yourselves — that  no  school  ever  advanced  far  which  had  not 
the  love  of  natural  fact  as  a primal  energy.  But  it  is  still 
more  important  for  you  to  be  assured  that  the  conditions  of 
life  and  death  in  the  art  of  nations  are  also  the  conditions  of 


POWER  OB 1 CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


35 


life  and  death  in  your  own  ; and  that  you  have  it,  each  in  his 
power  at  this  very  instant,  to  determine  in  which  direction  his 
steps  are  turning.  It  seems  almost  a terrible  thing  to  tell 
you,  that  all  here  have  all  the  power  of  knowing  at  once  what 
hope  there  is  for  them  as  artists ; you  would,  perhaps,  like 
better  that  there  was  some  unremovable  doubt  about  the 
chances  of  the  future — some  possibility  that  you  might  be  ad- 
vancing, in  unconscious  ways,  towards  unexpected  successes — 
some  excuse  or  reason  for  going  about,  as  students  do  so 
often,  to  this  master  or  the  other,  asking  him  if  they  have 
genius,  and  whether  they  are  doing  right,  and  gathering,  from 
his  careless  or  formal  replies,  vague  flashes  of  encouragement, 
or  fitfulnesses  of  despair.  There  is  no  need  for  this — no  ex- 
cuse for  it.  All  of  you  have  the  trial  of  yourselves  in  your 
own  power  ; each  may  undergo  at  this  instant,  before  his  own 
judgment  seat,  the  ordeal  by  fire.  Ask  yourselves  what  is  the 
leading  motive  which  actuates  you  while  you  are  at  work.  I 
do  not  ask  you  what  your  leading  motive  is  for  working — that 
is  a different  thing  ; you  may  have  families  to  support — par- 
ents to  help — brides  to  wfin  ; you  may  have  all  these,  or  other 
such  sacred  and  pre-eminent  motives,  to  press  the  morning’s 
labour  and  prompt  the  twilight  thought.  But  when  you  are 
fairly  at  the  work,  what  is  the  motive  then  which  tells  upon 
every  touch  of  it  ? If  it  is  the  love  of  that  which  your  work 
represents — if,  being  a landscape  painter,  it  is  love  of  hills  and 
trees  that  moves  you — if,  being  a figure  painter,  it  is  love  of 
human  beauty  and  human  soul  that  moves  you — if,  being  a 
flower  or  animal  painter,  it  is  love,  and  wonder,  and  delight 
in  petal  and  in  limb  that  move  you,  then  the  Spirit  is  upon 
you,  and  the  earth  is  yours,  and  the  fulness  thereof.  But  if, 
on  the  other  hand,  it  is  petty  self-complacency  in  your  own 
skill,  trust  in  precepts  and  laws,  hope  for  academical  or  popu- 
lar approbation,  or  avarice  of  wealth, — it  is  quite  possible  that 
by  steady  industry,  or  even  by  fortunate  chance,  you  may  win 
the  applause,  the  position,  the  fortune,  that  you  desire  ; — but 
one  touch  of  true  art  you  will  never  lay  on  canvas  or  on  stone 
as  long  as  you  live. 

Make,  then,  your  choice,  boldly  and  consciously,  for  one 


n n 
OU 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


way  or  other  it  must  be  made.  On  the  dark  and  dangerous 
side  are  set,  the  pride  which  delights  in  self-contemplation — 
the  indolence  which  rests  in  unquestioned  forms — the  igno- 
rance that  despises  what  is  fairest  among  God’s  creatures,  and 
the  dulness  that  denies  what  is  marvellous  in  His  working  : 
there  is  a life  of  monotony  for  your  own  souls,  and  of  misguid- 
ing for  those  of  others.  And,  on  the  other  side,  is  open  to 
your  choice  the  life  of  the  crowned  spirit,  moving  as  a light  in 
creation — discovering  always  — illuminating  always,  gaining 
every  hour  in  strength,  yet  bowed  down  every  hour  into 
deeper  humility  ; sure  of  being  right  in  its  aim,  sure  of  being 
irresistible  in  its  progress  ; happy  in  what  it  has  securely 
done — happier  in  what,  day  by  day,  it  may  as  securely  hope  ; 
happiest  at  the  close  of  life,  when  the  right  hand  begins  to 
forget  its  cunning,  to  remember,  that  there  never  was  a touch 
of  the  chisel  or  the  pencil  it  wielded,  but  has  added  to  the 
knowledge  and  quickened  the  happiness  of  mankind. 


LECTURE  H 

THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 

Part  of  an  Address*  delivered  at  Manchester , 14  th  March , 1859. 

It  is  sometimes  my  pleasant  duty  to  visit  other  cities,  in  the 
hope  of  being  able  to  encourage  their  art  students  ; but  here 
it  is  my  pleasanter  privilege  to  come  for  encouragement  my- 

* I was  prevented,  by  press  of  other  engagements,  from  preparing 
this  address  with  the  care  I wished  ; and  forced  to  trust  to  such  expres- 
sion as  I could  give  at  the  moment  to  the  points  of  principal  impor- 
tance ; reading,  however,  the  close  of  the  preceding  lecture,  which  I 
thought  contained  some  truths  that  would  bear  repetition.  The  whole 
was  reported,  better  than  it  deserved,  by  Mr.  Pitman,  of  the  Manches- 
ter Couriei\  and  published  nearly  verbatim.  I have  here  extracted, 
from  the  published  report,  the  facts  which  I wish  especially  to  enforce  ; 
and  have  a little  cleared  their  expression  ; its  loose  and  colloquial  char- 
acter I cannot  now  help,  unless  by  re-writing  the  whole,  which  it  seems 
not  worth  while  to  do. 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


37 


self.  I do  not  know  when  I have  received  so  much  as  from 
the  report  read  this  evening  by  Mr.  Hammersley,  bearing 
upon  a subject  which  has  caused  me  great  anxiety.  For  I 
have  always  felt  in  my  own  pursuit  of  art,  and  in  my  en- 
deavors to  urge  the  pursuit  of  art  on  others,  that  while  there 
are  many  advantages  now  that  never  existed  before,  there 
are  certain  grievous  difficulties  existing,  just  in  the  very 
cause  that  is  giving  the  stimulus  to  art — in  the  immense 
spread  of  the  manufactures  of  every  country  which  is  now  at- 
tending vigorously  to  art.  We  find  that  manufacture  and  art 
are  now  going  on  always  together  ; that  where  there  is  no 
manufacture  there  is  no  art.  I know  how  much  there  is  of 
pretended  art  where  there  is  no  manufacture  : there  is  much 
in  Italy,  for  instance  ; no  country  makes  so  bold  pretence  to 
the  production  of  new  art  as  Italy  at  this  moment ; yet  no 
country  produces  so  little.  If  you  glance  over  the  map  of 
Europe,  you  will  find  that  where  the  manufactures  are  strong- 
est, there  art  also  is  strongest.  And  yet  I always  felt  that 
there  was  an  immense  difficulty  to  be  encountered  by  the  stu- 
dents who  were  in  these  centres  of  modem  movement.  They 
had  to  avoid  the  notion  that  art  and  manufacture  were  in  any 
respect  one.  Art  may  be  healthily  associated  with  manufac- 
ture, and  probably  in  future  will  always  be  so  ; but  the  stu- 
dent must  be  strenuously  warned  against  supposing  that  they 
can  ever  be  one  and  the  same  thing,  that  art  can  ever  be  fol- 
lowed on  the  principles  of  manufacture.  Each  must  be  fol- 
lowed separately  ; the  one  must  influence  the  other,  but  each 
must  be  kept  distinctly  separate  from  the  other. 

It  would  be  well  if  all  students  would  keep  clearly  in  their 
mind  the  real  distinction  between  those  words  which  we  use 
so  often,  “Manufacture,”  “Art,”  and  “Fine  Art.”  “Manu- 
facture ” is,  according  to  the  etymology  and  right  use  of  the 
word,  “the  making  of  anything  by  hands,” — directly  or  indi- 
rectly,  with  or  without  the  help  of  instruments  or  machines. 
Anything  proceeding  from  the  hand  of  man  is  manufacture ; 
but  it  must  have  proceeded  from  his  hand  only,  acting 
mechanically,  and  uninfluenced  at  the  moment  by  direct  in- 
telligence. 


38 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


Then,  secondly,  Art  is  the  operation  of  the  hand  and  the 
intelligence  of  man  together  ; there  is  an  art  of  making  ma- 
chinery ; there  is  an  art  of  building  ships ; an  art  of  making 
carriages  ; and  so  on.  All  these,  properly  called  Arts,  but 
not  Fine  Arts,  are  pursuits  in  which  the  hand  of  man  and  his 
head  go  together,  working  at  the  same  instant. 

Then  Fine  Art  is  that  in  which  the  hand,  the  head,  and  the 
heart  of  man  go  together. 

Recollect  this  triple  group ; it  will  help  you  to  solve  many 
difficult  problems.  And  remember  that  though  the  hand 
must  be  at  the  bottom  of  everything,  it  must  also  go  to  the 
top  of  everything  ; for  Fine  Art  must  be  produced  by  the 
hand  of  man  in  a much  greater  and  clearer  sense  than  manu- 
facture is.  Fine  Art  must  always  be  produced  by  the  subtlest 
of  all  machines,  which  is  the  human  hand.  No  machine  yet 
contrived,  or  hereafter  contrivable,  will  ever  equal  the  fine 
machinery  of  the  human  fingers.  Thoroughly  perfect  art  is 
that  which  proceeds  from  the  heart,  which  involves  all  the 
noble  emotions  ; — associates  with  these  the  head,  yet  as  in- 
ferior to  the  heart ; and  the  hand,  yet  as  inferior  to  the  heart 
and  head  ; and  thus  brings  out  the  whole  man. 

Hence  it  follows  that  since  Manufacture  is  simply  the  opera- 
tion of  the  hand  of  man  in  producing  that  which  is  useful  to 
him,  it  essentially  separates  itself  from  the  emotions  ; when 
emotions  interfere  with  machinery  they  spoil  it:  machinery 
must  go  evenly,  without  emotion.  But  the  Fine  Arts  cannot 
go  evenly ; they  always  must  have  emotion  ruling  their 
mechanism,  and  until  the  pupil  begins  to  feel,  and  until  all 
he  does  associates  itself  with  the  current  of  his  feeling,  he  is 
not  an  artist.  But  pupils  in  all  the  schools  in  this  country 
are  now  exposed  to  all  kinds  of  temptations  which  blunt  their 
feelings.  I constantly  feel  discouraged  in  addressing  them 
because  I know  not  how  to  tell  them  boldly  what  they  ought 
to  do,  when  I feel  how  practically  difficult  it  is  for  them  to  do 
it.  There  are  all  sorts  of  demands  made  upon  them  in  every 
direction,  and  money  is  to  be  made  in  every  conceivable  way 
but  the  right  way.  If  you  paint  as  you  ought,  and  study  as  you 
ought,  depend  upon  it  the  public  will  take  no  notice  of  you 


TEE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


39 


for  a long  while.  If  you  study  wrongly,  and  try  to  draw  the 
attention  of  the  public  upon  you, — supposing  you  to  be  clever 
students — you  will  get  swift  reward  ; but  the  reward  does  not 
come  fast  when  it  is  sought  wisely  ; it  is  always  held  aloof  for 
a little  while  ; the  right  roads  of  early  life  are  very  quiet  ones, 
hedged  in  from  nearly  all  help  or  praise.  But  the  wrong 
roads  are  noisy, — vociferous  everywhere  with  all  kinds  of  de- 
mand upon  you  for  art  which  is  not  properly  art  at  all ; and 
in  the  various  meetings  of  modern  interests,  money  is  to  be 
made  in  every  way  ; but  art  is  to  be  followed  only  in  one  way. 
That  is  what  I want  mainly  to  say  to  you,  or  if  not  to  you 
yourselves  (for,  from  what  I have  heard  from  your  excellent 
master  to-night,  I know  you  are  going  on  all  rightly),  you 
must  let  me  say  it  through  you  to  others.  Our  Schools  of 
Art  are  confused  by  the  various  teaching  and  various  inter- 
ests that  are  now  abroad  among  us.  Everybody  is  talking 
about  art,  and  writing  about  it,  and  more  or  less  interested  in 
it ; everybody  wants  art,  and  there  is  not  art  for  everybody, 
and  few  who  talk  know  what  they  are  talking  about ; thus  stu- 
dents are  led  in  all  variable  ways,  while  there  is  only  one  way 
in  which  they  can  make  steady  progress,  for  true  art  is  always 
and  will  be  always  one.  Whatever  changes  may  be  made  in 
the  customs  of  society,  whatever  new  machines  we  may  invent, 
whatever  new  manufactures  we  may  supply,  Fine  Art  must 
remain  what  it  was  two  thousand  years  ago,  in  the  days  of 
Phidias  ; two  thousand  years  hence,  it  will  be,  in  all  its  prin- 
ciples, and  in  all  its  great  effects  upon  the  mind  of  man,  just 
the  same.  Observe  this  that  I say,  please,  carefully,  for  I 
mean  it  to  the  very  utmost.  There  is  but  one  right  way  of  do- 
ing any  given  thing  required  of  an  artist ; there  may  be  a hun- 
dred wrong,  deficient,  or  mannered  ways,  but  there  is  only 
one  complete  and  right  way.  Whenever  two  artists  are  try- 
ing to  do  the  same  thing  with  the  same  materials,  and  do  it 
in  different  ways,  one  of  them  is  wrong  ; he  may  be  charm- 
ingly wrong,  or  impressively  wrong — various  circumstances 
in  his  temper  may  make  his  wrong  pleasanter  than  any  per- 
son’s right ; it  may  for  him,  under  his  given  limitations  of 
knowledge  or  temper,  be  better  perhaps  that  he  should  err  in 


40 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


his  own  way  than  try  for  anybody  else’s — but  for  all  that  his 
way  is  wrong,  and  it  is  essential  for  all  masters  of  schools  to 
know  what  the  right  way  is,  and  what  right  art  is,  and  to  see 
how  simple  and  how  single  all  right  art  has  been,  since  the 
beginning  of  it. 

But  farther,  not  only  is  there  but  one  way  of  doing  things 
rightly,  but  there  is  only  one  way  of  seeing  them,  and  that  is, 
seeing  the  whole  of  them,  without  any  choice,  or  more  in- 
tense perception  of  one  point  than  another,  owing  to  our  spe- 
cial idiosyncrasies.  Thus,  when  Titian  or  Tintoret  look  at  a 
human  being,  they  see  at  a glance  the  whole  of  its  nature, 
outside  and  in ; all  that  it  has  of  form,  of  colour,  of  passion, 
or  of  thought ; saintliness,  and  loveliness ; fleshly  body,  and 
spiritual  power ; grace,  or  strength,  or  softness,  or  whatso- 
ever other  quality,  those  men  will  see  to  the  full,  and  so  paint, 
that,  when  narrower  people  come  to  look  at  what  they 
have  done,  every  one  may,  if  he  chooses,  find  his  own 
special  pleasure  in  the  work.  The  sensualist  will  find  sensu- 
ality in  Titian  ; the  thinker  will  find  thought ; the  saint,  sanc- 
tity ; the  colourist,  colour ; the  anatomist,  form  ; and  yet  the 
picture  will  never  be  a popular  one  in  the  full  sense,  for  none 
of  these  narrower  people  will  find  their  special  taste  so  alone 
consulted,  as  that  the  qualities  which  would  ensure  their  grati- 
fication shall  be  sifted  or  separated  from  others ; they  are 
checked  by  the  presence  of  the  other  qualities  which  ensure 
the  gratification  of  other  men.  Thus,  Titian  is  not  soft  enough 
for  the  sensualist,  Correggio  suits  him  better ; Titian  is  not 
defined  enough  for  the  formalist, — Leonardo  suits  him  better ; 
Titian  is  not  pure  enough  for  the  religionist, — Raphael  suits 
him  better ; Titian  is  not  polite  enough  for  the  man  of  the 
world, — Vandyke  suits  him  better  ; Titian  is  not  forcible 
enough  for  the  lovers  of  the  picturesque, — Rembrandt  suits 
him  better.  So  Correggio  is  popular  with  a certain  set,  and 
Vandyke  with  a certain  set,  and  Rembrandt  with  a certain  set 
All  are  great  men,  but  of  inferior  stamp,  and  therefore  Van- 
dyke is  popular,  and  Rembrandt  is  popular,*  but  nobody 

*And  Murillo,  of  all  true  painters  the  narrowest,  feeblest,  and  most 
superficial,  for  those  reasons  the  most  popular. 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART 


41 


cares  much  at  heart  about  Titian ; only  there  is  a strange 
under-current  of  everlasting  murmur  about  his  name,  which 
means  the  deep  consent  of  all  great  men  that  he  is  greater 
than  they — the  consent  of  those  who,  having  sat  long  enough 
at  his  feet,  have  found  in  that  restrained  harmony  of  his 
strength  there  are  indeed  depths  of  each  balanced  power 
more  wonderful  than  all  those  separate  manifestations  in  in- 
ferior painters  : that  there  is  a softness  more  exquisite  than 
Correggio’s,  a purity  loftier  than  Leonardo’s,  a force  mightier 
than  Rembrandt’s,  a sanctity  more  solemn  even  than  Raf- 
faelle’s. 

Do  not  suppose  that  in  saying  this  of  Titian,  I am  return- 
ing to  the  old  eclectic  theories  of  Bologna  ; for  all  those  eclec- 
tic theories,  observe,  were  based,  not  upon  an  endeavour  to 
unite  the  various  characters  of  nature  (which  it  is  possible  to 
do),  but  the  various  narrownesses  of  taste,  which  it  is  impossi- 
ble to  do.  Rubens  is  not  more  vigorous  than  Titian,  but  less 
vigorous ; but  because  he  is  so  narrow-minded  as  to  enjoy 
vigour  only,  he  refuses  to  give  the  other  qualities  of  nature, 
which  would  interfere  with  that  vigour  and  with  our  percep- 
tion of  it.  Again,  Rembrandt  is  not  a greater  master  of  chia- 
roscuro than  Titian  ; — he  is  a less  master,  but  because  he  is  so 
narrow-minded  as  to  enjoy  chiaroscuro  only,  he  withdraws 
from  you  the  splendour  of  hue  which  would  interfere  with 
this,  and  gives  you  only  the  shadow  in  which  you  can  at  once 
feel  it. 

Now  all  these  specialties  have  their  own  charm  in  their 
own  way  : and  there  are  times  when  the  particular  humour 
of  each  man  is  refreshing  to  us  from  its  very  distinctness ; 
but  the  effort  to  add  any  other  qualities  to  this  refreshing 
one  instantly  takes  away  the  distinctiveness,  and  therefore 
the  exact  character  to  be  enjoyed  in  its  appeal  to  a particular 
humour  in  us.  Our  enjoyment  arose  from  a weakness  meet- 
ing a weakness,  from  a partiality  in  the  painter  fitting  to  a 
partiality  in  us,  and  giving  us  sugar  when  we  wanted  sugar, 
and  myrrh  when  we  wanted  myrrh  ; but  sugar  and  myrrh  are 
not  meat : and  when  we  want  meat  and  bread,  we  must  go  to 
better  men. 


42 


TEE  TWO  PATES. 


The  eclectic  schools  endeavoured  to  unite  these  opposite 
partialities  and  weaknesses.  They  trained  themselves  under 
masters  of  exaggeration,  and  tried  to  unite  opposite  exaggera- 
tions. That  was  impossible.  They  did  not  see  that  the  only 
possible  eclecticism  had  been  already  accomplished ; — the 
eclecticism  of  temperance,  which,  by  the  restraint  of  force, 
gains  higher  force  ; and  by  the  self-denial  of  delight,  gains 
higher  delight.  This  you  will  find  is  ultimately  the  case  with 
every  true  and  right  master  ; at  first,  while  we  are  tyros  in 
art,  or  before  we  have  earnestly  studied  the  man  in  question, 
we  shall  see  little  in  him  ; or  perhaps  see,  as  we  think,  de- 
ficiencies ; we  shall  fancy  he  is  inferior  to  this  man  in  that, 
and  to  the  other  man  in  the  other  ; but  as  we  go  on  studying 
him  we  shall  find  that  he  has  got  both  that  and  the  other  ; 
and  both  in  a far  higher  sense  than  the  man  who  seemed  to 
possess  those  qualities  in  excess.  Thus  in  Turner’s  lifetime, 
when  people  first  looked  at  him,  those  who  liked  rainy 
weather,  said  he  was  not  equal  to  Copley  Fielding  ; but  those 
who  looked  at  Turner  long  enough  found  that  he  could  be 
much  more  wet  than  Copley  Fielding,  when  he  chose.  The 
people  who  liked  force,  said  that  “Turner  was  not  strong 
enough  for  them  ; he  was  effeminate  ; they  liked  De  Wint, — 
nice  strong  tone  ; — or  Cox — great,  greeny,  dark  masses  of 
colour — solemn  feeling  of  the  freshness  and  depth  of  nature  ; 
— they  liked  Cox — Turner  was  too  hot  for  them.”  Had  they 
looked  long  enough  they  would  have  found  that  he  had  far 
more  force  than  De  Wint,  far  more  freshness  than  Cox  when 
he  chose, — only  united  with  other  elements  ; and  that  he 
didn’t  choose  to  be  cool,  if  nature  had  appointed  the  weather 
to  be  hot.  The  people  who  liked  Prout  said  “ Turner  had 
not  firmness  of  hand — he  did  not  know  enough  about  archi- 
tecture— he  was  not  picturesque  enough.”  Had  they  looked 
at  his  architecture  long,  they  would  have  found  that  it  con- 
tained subtle  picturesquenesses,  infinitely  more  picturesque 
than  anything  of  Prout’s.  People  who  liked  Callcott  said 
that  “Turner  was  not  correct  or  pure  enough — had  no 
classical  taste.”  Had  they  looked  at  Turner  long  enough 
they  would  have  found  him  as  severe,  when  he  chose,  as  the 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


43 


greater  Poussin  ; — Callcott,  a mere  vulgar  imitator  of  other 
men’s  high  breeding.  And  so  throughout  with  all  thoroughly 
great  men,  their  strength  is  not  seen  at  first,  precisely 
because  they  unite,  in  due  place  and  measure,  every  great 
quality. 

Now  the  question  is,  whether,  as  students,  we  are  to  study 
only  these  mightiest  men,  who  unite  all  greatness,  or  whether 
we  are  to  study  the  works  of  inferior  men,  who  present  us 
with  the  greatness  which  we  particularly  like  ? That  question 
often  comes  before  me  when  I see  a strong  idiosyncrasy  in  a 
student,  and  he  asks  me  what  he  should  study.  Shall  I send 
him  to  a true  master,  who  does  not  present  the  quality  in  a 
prominent  way  in  which  that  student  delights,  or  send  him 
to  a man  with  whom  he  has  direct  sympathy  ? It  is  a hard 
question.  For  very  curious  results  have  sometimes  been 
brought  out,  especially  in  late  years,  not  only  by  students 
following  their  own  bent,  but  by  their  being  withdrawn  from 
teaching  altogether.  I have  just  named  a very  great  man  in 
his  own  field — Prout.  We  all  know  his  drawings,  and  love 
them  : they  have  a peculiar  character  which  no  other  archi- 
tectural drawings  ever  possessed,  and  which  no  others  can 
possess,  because  all  Prout’s  subjects  are  being  knocked  down 
or  restored.  (Prout  did  not  like  restored  buildings  any 
more  than  I do.)  There  will  never  be  any  more  Prout  draw- 
ings. Nor  could  he  have  been  what  he  was,  or  expressed 
with  that  mysteriously  effective  touch  that  peculiar  delight  in 
broken  and  old  buildings,  unless  he  had  been  withdrawn  from 
all  high  art  influence.  You  know  that  Prout  was  born  of 
poor  parents — that  he  was  educated  down  in  Cornwall ; — and 
that,  for  many  years,  all  the  art-teaching  he  had  was  his  own, 
or  the  fishermen’s.  Under  the  keels  of  the  fishing-boats,  on 
the  sands  of  our  southern  coasts,  Prout  learned  all  that  he 
needed  to  learn  about  art.  Entirely  by  himself,  he  felt  his 
way  to  this  particular  style,  and  became  the  painter  of  pict- 
ures which  I think  we  should  all  regret  to  lose.  It  becomes 
a very  difficult  question  what  that  man  would  have  been,  had 
he  been  brought  under  some  entirely  wholesome  artistic  in- 
fluence. He  had  immense  gifts  of  composition.  I do  not 


44 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


know  any  man  who  had  more  power  of  invention  than  Prout, 
or  who  had  a sublimer  instinct  in  his  treatment  of  things ; 
but  being  entirely  withdrawn  from  all  artistical  help,  he  blun- 
ders his  way  to  that  short-coming  representation,  which, 
by  the  very  reason  of  its  short-coming,  has  a certain  charm 
we  should  all  be  sorry  to  lose.  And  therefore  I feel  embar- 
rassed when  a student  comes  to  me,  in  whom  I see  a strong 
instinct  of  that  kind  : and  cannot  tell  whether  I ought  to  say 
to  him,  “ Give  up  all  your  studies  of  old  boats,  and  keep 
away  from  the  sea-shore,  and  come  up  to  the  Boyal  Academy 
in  London,  and  look  at  nothing  but  Titian.”  It  is  a difficult 
thing  to  make  up  one’s  mind  to  say  that.  However,  I believe, 
on  the  whole,  we  may  wisely  leave  such  matters  in  the  hands 
of  Providence  ; that  if  we  have  the  power  of  teaching  the  right 
to  anybody,  we  should  teach  them  the  right ; if  we  have  the 
power  of  showing  them  the  best  thing,  we  should  show  them 
the  best  thing  ; there  will  always,  I fear,  be  enough  want  of 
teaching,  and  enough  bad  teaching,  to  bring  out  very  curious 
erratical  results  if  we  want  them.  So,  if  we  are  to  teach  at  all, 
let  us  teach  the  right  thing,  and  ever  the  right  thing.  There 
are  many  attractive  qualities  inconsistent  with  rightness  ; — 
do  not  let  us  teach  them, — let  us  be  content  to  waive  them. 
There  are  attractive  qualities  in  Burns,  and  attractive  qualities 
in  Dickens,  which  neither  of  those  writers  would  have  pos- 
sessed if  the  one  had  been  educated,  and  the  other  had  been 
studying  higher  nature  than  that  of  cockney  London  ; but 
those  attractive  qualities  are  not  such  as  we  should  seek  in  a 
school  of  literature.  If  we  want  to  teach  young  men  a good 
manner  of  writing,  we  should  teach  it  from  Shakspeare, — not 
from  Burns  ; from  Walter  Scott, — and  not  from  Dickens. 
And  I believe  that  our  schools  of  painting  are  at  present  in- 
efficient in  their  action,  because  they  have  not  fixed  on  this 
high  principle  what  are  the  painters  to  whom  to  point ; nor 
boldly  resolved  to  point  to  the  best,  if  determinable.  It  is 
becoming  a matter  of  stem  necessity  that  they  should  give  a 
simple  direction  to  the  attention  of  the  student,  and  that  they 
should  say,  “ This  is  the  mark  you  are  to  aim  at ; and  you 
are  not  to  go  about  to  the  print-shops,  and  peep  in,  to  see 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


45 


how  this  engraver  does  that,  and  the  other  engraver  does  the 
other,  and  how  a nice  bit  of  character  has  been  caught  by  a 
new  man,  and  why  this  odd  picture  has  caught  the  popular 
attention.  You  are  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  all  that ; you 
are  not  to  mind  about  popular  attention  just  now  ; but  here 
is  a thing  which  is  eternally  right  and  good  : you  are  to  look 
at  that,  and  see  if  you  cannot  do  something  eternally  right 
and  good  too.” 

But  suppose  you  accept  this  principle  : and  resolve  to  look 
to  some  great  man,  Titian,  or  Turner,  or  whomsoever  it  may 
be,  as  the  model  of  perfection  in  art ; — then  the  question  is, 
since  this  great  man  pursued  his  art  in  Venice,  or  in  the  fields 
of  England,  under  totally  different  conditions  from  those  pos- 
sible to  us  now — how  are  you  to  make  your  study  of  him 
effective  here  in  Manchester  ? how  bring  it  down  into  patterns* 
and  all  that  you  are  called  upon  as  operatives  to  produce  ? 
how  make  it  the  means  of  your  livelihood,  and  associate  inferior 
branches  of  art  with  this  great  art  ? That  may  become  a seri- 
ous doubt  to  you.  You  may  think  there  is  some  other  way  of 
producing  clever,  and  pretty,  and  saleable  patterns  than  going 
to  look  at  Titian,  or  any  other  great  man.  And  that  brings  me 
to  the  question,  perhaps  the  most  vexed  question  of  all  amongst 
us  just  now,  between  conventional  and  perfect  art.  You  know 
that  among  architects  and  artists  there  are,  and  have  been 
almost  always,  since  art  became  a subject  of  much  discussion, 
two  parties,  one  maintaining  that  nature  should  be  always 
altered  and  modified,  and  that  the  artist  is  greater  than  nat- 
ure ; they  do  not  maintain,  indeed,  in  words,  but  they  main- 
tain in  idea,  that  the  artist  is  greater  than  the  Divine  Maker 
of  these  things,  and  can  improve  them ; while  the  other  party 
say  that  he  cannot  improve  nature,  and  that  nature  on  the 
whole  should  improve  him.  That  is  the  real  meaning  of  the 
two  parties,  the  essence  of  them ; the  practical  result  of  their 
several  theories  being  that  the  Idealists  are  always  producing 
more  or  less  formal  conditions  of  art,  and  the  Realists  striving 
to  produce  in  all  their  art  either  some  image  of  nature,  or  rec- 
ord of  nature  ; these,  observe,  being  quite  different  things, 
the  image  being  a resemblance,  and  the  record,  something 


46 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


which  will  give  information  about  nature,  but  not  necessarily 
imitate  it.* 

* * * * * * * 

You  may  separate  these  two  groups  of  artists  more  distinctly 
in  your  mind  as  those  who  seek  for  the  pleasure  of  art,  in  the 
relations  of  its  colours  and  lines,  without  caring  to  convey 
any  truth  with  it ; and  those  who  seek  for  the  truth  first, 
and  then  go  down  from  the  truth  to  the  pleasure  of  colour 
and  line.  Marking  those  two  bodies  distinctly  as  separate, 
and  thinking  over  them,  you  may  come  to  some  rather  nota- 
ble conclusions  respecting  the  mental  dispositions  which  are 
involved  in  each  mode  of  study.  You  will  find  that  large 
masses  of  the  art  of  the  world  fall  definitely  under  one  or  the 
other  of  these  heads.  Observe,  pleasure  first  and  truth  after- 
wards, (or  not  at  all,)  as  with  the  Arabians  and  Indians  ; or, 
truth  first  and  pleasure  afterwards,  as  with  Angelico  and  all 
other  great  European  painters.  You  wTill  find  that  the  art 
whose  end  is  pleasure  only  is  pre-eminently  the  gift  of  cruel 
and  savage  nations,  cruel  in  temper,  savage  in  habits  and  con- 
ception ; but  that  the  art  which  is  especially  dedicated  to  nat- 
ural fact  always  indicates  a peculiar  gentleness  and  tender- 
ness of  mind,  and  that  all  great  and  successful  work  of  that 
kind  will  assuredly  be  the  production  of  thoughtful,  sensitive, 
earnest,  kind  men,  large  in  their  views  of  life,  and  full  of  vari- 
ous intellectual  power.  And  farther,  when  you  examine  the 
men  in  whom  the  gifts  of  art  are  variously  mingled,  or  uni- 
versally mingled,  you  will  discern  that  the  ornamental,  or 
pleasurable  power,  though  it  may  be  possessed  by  good  men, 
is  not  in  itself  an  indication  of  their  goodness,  but  is  rather, 
unless  balanced  by  other  faculties,  indicative  of  violence  of 
temper,  inclining  to  cruelty  and  to  irreligion.  On  the  other 
hand,  so  sure  as  you  find  any  man  endowed  "with  a keen  and 
separate  faculty  of  representing  natural  fact,  so  surely  you 
will  find  that  man  gentle  and  upright,  full  of  nobleness  and 
breadth  of  thought.  I will  give  you  two  instances,  the  first 

* The  portion  of  the  lecture  here  omitted  was  a recapitulation  of  that 
part  of  the  previous  one  which  opposed  conventional  art  to  natural  art 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


47 


peculiarly  English,  and  another  peculiarly  interesting  because 
it  occurs  among  a nation  not  generally  very  kind  or  gentle. 

I am  inclined  to  think  that,  considering  all  the  disadvan- 
tages of  circumstances  and  education  under  which  his  genius 
was  developed,  there  was  perhaps  hardly  ever  born  a man 
with  a more  intense  and  innate  gift  of  insight  into  nature 
than  our  own  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  Considered  as  a painter 
of  individuality  in  the  human  form  and  mind,  I think  him, 
even  as  it  is,  the  prince  of  portrait  painters.  Titian  paints 
nobler  pictures,  and  Vandyke  had  nobler  subjects,  but  neither 
of  them  entered  so  subtly  as  Sir  Joshua  did  into  the  minor 
varieties  of  human  heart  and  temper  ; and  when  you  consider 
that,  with  a frightful  conventionality  of  social  habitude  all 
around  him,  he  yet  conceived  the  simplest  types  of  all  feminine 
and  childish  loveliness  that  in  a northern  climate,  and  with 
gray,  and  white,  and  black,  as  the  principal  colours  around 
him,  he  yet  became  a colourist  who  can  be  crushed  by  none, 
even  of  the  Venetians ; — and  that  with  Dutch  painting  and 
Dresden  china  for  the  prevailing  types  of  art  in  the  saloons  of 
his  day,  he  threw  himself  at  once  at  the  feet  of  the  great  mas- 
ters of  Italy,  and  arose  from  their  feet  to  share  their  throne— I 
know  not  that  in  the  whole  history  of  art  you  can  produce 
another  instance  of  so  strong,  so  unaided,  so  unerring  an  in- 
stinct for  all  that  was  true,  pure,  and  noble. 

Now,  do  you  recollect  the  evidence  respecting  the  character 
of  this  man, — the  two  points  of  bright  peculiar  evidence  given 
by  the  sayings  of  the  two  greatest  literary  men  of  his  day, 
Johnson  and  Goldsmith?  Johnson,  who,  as  you  know,  was 
always  Reynolds’  attached  friend,  had  but  one  complaint  to 
make  against  him,  that  he  hated  nobody  “ Reynolds,”  he 
said,  “ you  hate  no  one  living  ; I like  a good  hater  ! ” Still 
more  significant  is  the  little  touch  in  Goldsmith’s  “ Retalia- 
tion. You  recollect  how  in  that  poem  he  describes  the  vari- 
ous persons  who  met  at  one  of  their  dinners  at  St.  James’s 
Coffee-house,  each  person  being  described  under  the  name  of 
some  appropriate  dish.  You  will  often  hear  the  concluding 
lines  about  Reynolds  Quoted — 

" He  shifted  his  trumpet,”  & c 


48 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


less  often,  or  at  least  less  attentively,  the  preceding  ones,  far 
more  important — 

“Still  born  to  improve  us  in  every  part — 

His  pencil  our  faces,  liis  manners  our  heart 

and  never,  the  most  characteristic  touch  of  all,  near  the  be- 
ginning 

“ Our  dean  shall  be  venison,  just  fresh  from  the  plains; 

Our  Burke  shall  be  tongue,  with  a garnish  of  brains. 

To  make  out  the  dinner,  full  certain  I am, 

That  Rich  is  anchovy,  and  Reynolds  is  lamb." 


The  other  painter  whom  I would  give  you  as  an  instance  of 
this  gentleness  is  a man  of  another  nation,  on  the  whole  I 
suppose  one  of  the  most  cruel  civilized  nations  in  the  world — 
the  Spaniards.  They  produced  but  one  great  painter,  only 
one  ; but  he  among  the  very  greatest  of  painters,  Velasquez. 
You  would  not  suppose,  from  looking  at  Velasquez’  portraits 
generally,  that  he  w*as  an  especially  kind  or  good  man  ; you 
perceive  a peculiar  sternness  about  them  ; for  they  were  as 
true  as  steel,  and  the  persons  whom  he  had  to  paint  being  not 
generally  kind  or  good  people,  they  were  stern  in  expression, 
and  Velasquez  gave  the  sternness  ; but  he  had  precisely  the 
same  intense  perception  of  truth,  the  same  marvellous  instinct 
for  the  rendering  of  all  natural  soul  and  all  natural  form  that 
our  Reynolds  had.  Let  me,  then,  read  you  his  character  as  it 
is  given  by  Mr.  Stirling,  of  Kier  : — 

“ Certain  charges,  of  what  nature  we  are  not  informed, 
brought  against  him  after  his  death,  made  it  necessary  for  his 
executor,  Fuensalida,  to  refute  them  at  a private  audience 
granted  to  him  by  the  king  for  that  purpose.  After  listening 
to  the  defence  of  his  friend,  Philip  immediately  made  answer  : 
‘I  can  believe  all  you  say  of  the  excellent  disposition  of 
Diego  Velasquez.’  Having  lived  for  half  his  life  in  courts,  he 
was  yet  capable  both  of  gratitude  and  generosity,  and  in  the 
misfortunes,  he  could  remember  the  early  kindness  of  Oliva- 
res. The  friend  of  the  exile  of  Loeches,  it  is  just  to  believe 
that  he  was  also  the  friend  of  the  all-powerful  favourite  at 


TEE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


49 


Buenretiro.  No  mean  jealousy  ever  influenced  his  conduct 
to  his  brother  artists  ; he  could  afford  not  only  to  acknowl- 
edge the  merits,  but  to  forgive  the  malice,  of  his  rivals.  His 
character  was  of  that  rare  and  happy  kind , in  which  high  intel- 
lectual power  is  combined  with  indomitable  strength  of  will , and 
a winning  sweetness  of  temper , and  which  seldom  fails  to  raise 
the  possessor  above  his  fellow-men,  making  his  life  a 


* laurelled  victory,  and  smooth  success 
Be  strewed  before  his  feet.’” 

I am  sometimes  accused  of  trying  to  make  art  too  moral ; 
yet,  observe,  I do  not  say  in  the  least  that  in  order  to  be  a 
good  painter  you  must  be  a good  man  ; but  I do  say  that  in 
order  to  be  a good  natural  painter  there  must  be  strong 
elements  of  good  in  the  mind,  however  warped  by  other  parts 
of  the  character.  There  are  hundreds  of  other  gifts  of  paint- 
ing which  are  not  at  all  involved  with  moral  conditions,  but 
this  one,  the  perception  of  nature,  is  never  given  but  under 
certain  moral  conditions.  Therefore,  now  you  have  it  in  your 
choice  ; here  are  your  two  paths  for  you : it  is  required  of 
you  to  produce  conventional  ornament,  and  you  may  approach 
the  task  as  the  Hindoo  does,  and  as  the  Arab  did,  without 
nature  at  all,  with  the  chance  of  approximating  your  disposi- 
tion somewhat  to  that  of  the  Hindoos  and  Arabs ; or  as  Sir 
Joshua  and  Velasquez  did,  with,  not  the  chance,  but  the  cer- 
tainty, of  approximating  your  disposition,  according  to  the 
sincerity  of  your  effort — to  the  disposition  of  those  great  and 
good  men. 

And  do  you  suppose  you  will  lose  anything  by  approaching 
your  conventional  art  from  this  higher  side?  Not  so.  I 
called,  with  deliberate  measurement  of  my  expression,  long 
ago,  the  decoration  of  the  Alhambra  “ detestable,”  not  merely 
because  indicative  of  base  conditions  of  moral  being,  but  be- 
cause merely  as  decorative  work,  however  captivating  in  some 
respects,  it  is  wholly  wanting  in  the  real,  deep,  and  intense 
qualities  of  ornamental  art.  Noble  conventional  decoration 
belongs  only  to  three  periods.  First,  there  is  the  convem 
tional  decoration  of  the  Greeks,  used  in  subordination  to  their 


50 


THE  TWO  PATES. 


sculpture.  There  are  then  the  noble  conventional  decoration 
of  the  early  Gothic  schools,  and  the  noble  conventional  ara- 
besque of  the  great  Italian  schools.  All  these  were  reached 
from  above,  all  reached  by  stooping  from  a knowledge  of  the 
human  form.  Depend  upon  it  you  will  find,  as  you  look 
more  and  more  into  the  matter,  that  good  subordinate  orna- 
ment has  ever  been  rooted  in  a higher  knowledge  ; and  if  you 
are  again  to  produce  anything  that  is  noble,  you  must  have 
the  higher  knowledge  first,  and  descend  to  all  lower  service  ; 
condescend  as  much  as  you  like, — condescension  never  does 
any  man  any  harm, — but  get  your  noble  standing  first.  So, 
then,  without  any  scruple,  whatever  branch  of  art  you  may  be 
inclined  as  a student  here  to  follow, — whatever  you  are  to 
make  your  bread  by,  I say,  so  far  as  you  have  time  and  power, 
make  yourself  first  a noble  and  accomplished  artist ; under- 
stand at  least  what  noble  and  accomplished  art  is,  and  then 
you  will  be  able  to  apply  your  knowledge  to  all  service  what- 
soever. 

I am  now  going  to  ask  your  permission  to  name  the  masters 
whom  I think  it  would  be  well  if  we  could  agree,  in  our  Schools 
of  Art  in  England,  to  consider  our  leaders.  The  first  and  chief 
I will  not  myself  presume  to  name  ; he  shall  be  distinguished 
for  you  by  the  authority  of  those  two  great  painters  of  whom 
we  have  just  been  speaking — Reynolds  and  Velasquez.  You 
may  remember  that  in  your  Manchester  Art  Treasures  Exhibi- 
tion the  most  impressive  things  were  the  works  of  those  two 
men — nothing  told  upon  the  eye  so  much  ; no  other  pictures 
retained  it  with  such  a persistent  power.  Now,  I have  the 
testimony,  first  of  Reynolds  to  Velasquez,  and  then  of  Velasquez 
to  the  man  whom  I want  you  to  take  as  the  master  of  all  your 
English  schools.  The  testimony  of  Reynolds  to  Velasquez  is 
very  striking.  I take  it  from  some  fragments  which  have  just 
been  published  by  Air.  William  Cotton — precious  fragments 
— of  Reynolds’  diaries,  which  I chanced  upon  luckily  as  I was 
coming  down  here  : for  I was  going  to  take  Velasquez’  testi- 
mony alone,  and  then  fell  upon  this  testimony  of  Reynolds  to 
Velasquez,  written  most  fortunately  in  Reynolds’  own  hand — 
you  may  see  the  manuscript.  “ What  we  are  all,”  said  Rey- 


TEE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


51 


Holds,  “ attempting  to  do  with  great  labor,  Velasquez  does  at 
once .”  Just  think  what  is  implied  when  a man  of  the  enor- 
mous power  and  facility  that  Reynolds  had,  says  he  was  “ try- 
ing to  do  with  great  labor”  what  Velasquez  “ did  at  once.” 
Having  thus  Reynolds’  testimony  to  Velasquez,  I will  take 
Velasquez’  testimony  to  somebody  else.  You  know  that  Velas- 
quez was  sent  by  Philip  of  Spain  to  Italy,  to  buy  pictures  for 
him.  He  went  all  over  Italy,  saw  the  living  artists  there,  and 
all  their  best  pictures  when  freshly  painted,  so  that  he  had 
every  opportunity  of  judging ; and  never  was  a man  so  capable 
of  judging.  He  went  to  Rome  and  ordered  various  works  of 
living  artists  ; and  while  there,  he  was  one  day  asked  by  Salva- 
tor Rosa  what  he  thought  of  Raphael.  His  reply,  and  the 
ensuing  conversation,  are  thus  reported  by  Boschini,  in  curious 
Italian  verse,  which,  thus  translated  by  Dr.  Donaldson,  is 
quoted  in  Mr.  Stirling’s  Life  of  Velasquez  : — 

“The  master  ” [Velasquez]  “stiffly  bowed  his  figure  tall 
And  said,  ‘ For  Rafael,  to  speak  the  truth — 

I always  was  plain-spoken  from  my  youth — 

I cannot  say  I like  his  works  at  all.  ’ 

“ ‘Well,’  said  the  other  ” [Salvator],  “ * if  you  can  run  down 
So  great  a man,  I really  cannot  see 
What  you  can  find  to  like  in  Italy  ; 

To  him  we  all  agree  to  give  the  crown.’ 

“ Diego  answered  thus  : ‘ I saw  in  Venice 
The  true  test  of  the  good  and  beautiful ; 

First  in  my  judgment,  ever  stands  that  school, 

And  Titian  first  of  all  Italian  men  is.’  ’’ 

“ Tizian  ze  quel  che  porta  la  handier  a.  ” 

Learn  that  line  by  heart,  and  act,  at  all  events  for  some  time 
to  come,  upon  Velasquez’  opinion  in  that  matter.  Titian  is 
much  the  safest  master  for  you.  Raphael’s  power,  such  as  it 
was,  and  great  as  it  was,  depended  wholly  upon  transcendental 
characters  in  his  mind  ; it  is  “ Raphaelesque,”  properly  so 
called  ; but  Titian’s  power  is  simply  the  power  of  doing  right. 
"Whatever  came  before  Titian,  he  did  wholly  as  it  ought  to  be 


52 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


done.  Do  not  suppose  that  now  in  recommending  Titian  to 
you  so  strongly,  and  speaking  of  nobody  else  to-night,  I am 
retreating  in  anywise  from  what  some  of  you  may  perhaps  rec- 
ollect in  my  works,  the  enthusiasm  with  which  I have  always 
spoken  of  another  Venetian  painter.  There  are  three  Vene- 
tians who  are  never  separated  in  my  mind — Titian,  Veronese, 
and  Tintoret.  They  all  have  their  own  unequalled  gifts,  and 
Tintoret  especially  has  imagination  and  depth  of  soul  which  I 
think  renders  him  indisputably  the  greatest  man ; but,  equally 
indisputably,  Titian  is  the  greatest  painter  ; and  therefore  the 
greatest  painter  who  ever  lived.  You  may  be  led  wrong  by 
Tintoret  * in  many  respects,  wrong  by  Raphael  in  more  ; all 
that  you  learn  from  Titian  will  be  right.  Then,  with  Titian, 
take  Leonardo,  Rembrandt,  and  Albert  Durer.  I name  those 
three  masters  for  this  reason  : Leonardo  has  powers  of  subtle 
drawing  which  are  peculiarly  applicable  in  many  ways  to  the 
drawing  of  fine  ornament,  and  are  very  useful  for  all  students. 
Rembrandt  and  Durer  are  the  only  men  whose  actual  work  of 
hand  you  can  have  to  look  at ; you  can  have  Rembrandt’s 
etchings,  or  Durer’s  engravings  actually  hung  in  your  schools  ; 
and  it  is  a main  point  for  the  student  to  see  the  real  thing,  and 
avoid  judging  of  masters  at  second-hand.  As,  however,  in 
obeying  this  principle,  you  cannot  often  have  opportunities  of 
studying  Venetian  painting,  it  is  desirable  that  you  should 
have  a useful  standard  of  colour,  and  I think  it  is  possible  for 
you  to  obtain  this.  I cannot,  indeed,  without  entering  upon 
ground  which  might  involve  the  hurting  the  feelings  of  living 
artists,  state  exactly  what  I believe  to  be  the  relative  position 
of  various  painters  in  England  at  present  with  respect  to  power 
of  colour.  But  I may  say  this,  that  in  the  peculiar  gifts  of 
colour  which  will  be  useful  to  you  as  students,  there  are  only 
one  or  two  of  the  pre-Raphaelites,  and  William  Hunt,  of  the 
old  Water  Colour  Society,  who  would  be  safe  guides  for  you  ; 
and  as  quite  a safe  guide,  there  is  nobody  but  William  Hunt, 
because  the  pre-Raphaelites  are  all  more  or  less  affected  by 
enthusiasm  and  by  various  morbid  conditions  of  intellect  and 
temper  ; but  old  William  Hunt — I am  sorry  to  say  “ old,”  but 
* See  Appendix  L — “ Riglit  and  Wrong." 


THE  UNITY  OP  ART . 


53 


I say  it  in  a loving  way,  for  every  year  that  has  added  to  his 
life  has  added  also  to  his  skill — William  Hunt  is  as  right  as 
the  Venetians,  as  far  as  he  goes,  and  what  is  more,  nearly  as 
inimitable  as  they.  And  I think  if  we  manage  to  put  in  the 
principal  schools  of  England  a little  bit  of  Hunt’s  work,  and 
make  that  somewhat  of  a standard  of  colour,  that  we  can  ap- 
ply his  principles  of  colouring  to  subjects  of  all  kinds.  Until 
you  have  had  a work  of  his  long  near  you  ; nay,  unless  you 
have  been  labouring  at  it,  and  trying  to  copy  it,  you  do  not 
know  the  thoroughly  grand  qualities  that  are  concentrated  in 
it.  Simplicity,  and  intensity,  both  of  the  highest  character  ; 

simplicity  of  aim,  and  intensity  of  power  and  success,  are 
involved  in  that  man  s unpretending  labour. 

Finally,  you  cannot  believe  that  I would  omit  my  own 
favourite,  Turner.  I fear  from  the  very  number  of  his  works 
left  to  the  nation,  that  there  is  a disposition  now  rising  to 
look  upon  his  vast  bequest  with  some  contempt.  I beg  of 
you,  if  in  nothing  else,  to  believe  me  in  this,  that  you  cannot 
further  the  art  of  England  in  any  way  more  distinctly  than  by 
giving  attention  to  every  fragment  that  has  been  left  by  that 
man.  The  time  will  come  when  his  full  power  and  right 
place  win  be  acknowledged  ; that  time  wiU  not  be  for  many  a 
day  yet : nevertheless,  be  assured — as  far  as  you  are  inclined 
to  give  the  least  faith  to  anything  I may  say  to  you,  be  as- 
sured—that  you  can  act  for  the  good  of  art  in  England  in  no 
better  way  than  by  using  whatever  influence  any  of  you  have 
in  any  direction  to  urge  the  reverent  study  and  yet  more 
reverent  preservation  of  the  works  of  Turner.  I do  not  say 
‘‘  the  exhibition  ” of  his  works,  for  we  are  not  altogether  ripe 
for  it : they  are  still  too  far  above  us ; uniting,  as  I was  telling 
you,  too  many  qualities  for  us  yet  to  feel  fully  their  range  and 
their  influence  ; but  let  us  only  try  to  keep  them  safe  from 
harm,  and  show  thoroughly  and  conveniently  what  we  show 
of  them  at  all,  and  day  by  day  their  greatness  will  dawn  upon 
us  more  and  more,  and  be  the  root  of  a school  of  art  in  Eng- 
land, which  I do  not  doubt  may  be  as  bright,  as  just,  and  as 
refined  as  even  that  of  Venice  herself.  The  dominion  of  the 
sea  seems  to  have  been  associated,  in  past  time,  with  dominion 


54 


TEE  TWO  PATES. 


in  the  arts  also : Athens  had  them  together  ; Venice  had  them 
together  ; but  by  so  much  as  our  authority  over  the  ocean  is 
wider  than  theirs  over  the  iEgean  or  Adriatic,  let  us  strive  to 
make  our  art  more  widely  beneficent  than  theirs,  though  it 
cannot  be  more  exalted  ; so  working  out  the  fulfilment,  in 
their  wakening  as  well  as  their  warning  sense,  of  those  great 
words  of  the  aged  Tin  tore  t : 

“Sempre  si  fa  il  Mare  Maggiore.” 


LECTURE  m. 

modern  manufacture  and  design. 

A Lecture  delivered  at  Bradford,  March,  1859. 

It  is  with  a deep  sense  of  necessity  for  your  indulgence  that  I 
venture  to  address  you  to-night,  or  that  I venture  at  any  time 
to  address  the  pupils  of  schools  of  design  intended  for  the 
advancement  of  taste  in  special  branches  of  manufacture.  No 
person  is  able  to  give  useful  and  definite  help  towards  such 
special  applications  of  art,  unless  he  is  entirely  familiar  with 
the  conditions  of  labour  and  natures  of  material  involved  in 
the  work  ; and  indefinite  help  is  little  better  than  no  help  at 
all.  Nay,  the  few  remarks  which  I propose  to  lay  before  you 
this  evening  will,  I fear,  be  rather  suggestive  of  difficulties 
than  helpful  in  conquering  them : nevertheless,  it  may  not  be 
altogether  unserviceable  to  define  clearly  for  you  (and  this,  at 
least,  I am  able  to  do)  one  or  two  of  the  more  stem  general 
obstacles  which  stand  at  present  in  the  way  of  our  success  in 
design  ; and  to  warn  you  against  exertion  of  effort  in  any  vain 
or  wasteful  way,  till  these  main  obstacles  are  removed. 

The  first  of  these  is  our  not  understanding  the  scope  and 
dignity  of  Decorative  design.  With  all  our  talk  about  it,  the 
very  meaning  of  the  words  “ Decorative  art  ” remains  confused 
and  undecided.  I want,  if  possible,  to  settle  this  question  for 
you  to-night,  and  to  show  you  that  the  principles  on  which  you 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE  AND  DESIGN. 


55 


must  work  are  likely  to  be  false,  in  proportion  as  they  are 
narrow  ; true,  only  as  they  are  founded  on  a perception  of  the 
connection  of  all  branches  of  art  with  each  other. 

Observe,  then,  first — the  only  essential  distinction  between 
Decorative  and  other  art  is  the  being  fitted  for  a fixed  place ; and 
in  that  place,  related,  either  in  subordination  or  command,  to 
the  effect  of  other  pieces  of  art.  And  all  the  greatest  art  which 
the  world  has  produced  is  thus  fited  for  a place,  and  subor- 
dinated to  a purpose.  There  is  no  existing  highest-order  art 
but  is  decorative.  The  best  sculpture  yet  produced  has  been 
the  decoration  of  a temple  front — the  best  painting,  the  deco- 
ration of  a room.  Raphael’s  best  doing  is  merely  the  wall-col- 
ouring of  a suite  of  apartments  in  the  Vatican,  and  his  car- 
toons were  made  for  tapestries.  Correggio’s  best  doing  is  the 
decoration  of  two  small  church  cupolas  at  Parma ; Michael 
Angelo’s  of  a ceiling  in  the  Pope’s  private  chapel ; Tintoret’s, 
of  a ceiling  and  side  wall  belonging  to  a charitable  society  at 
Venice  ; while  Titian  and  Veronese  threw  out  their  noblest 
thoughts,  not  even  on  the  inside,  but  on  the  outside  of  the 
common  brick  and  plaster  walls  of  Venice. 

Get  rid,  then,  at  once  of  any  idea  of  Decorative  art  being  a 
degraded  or  a separate  kind  of  art.  Its  nature  or  essence  is 
simply  its  being  fitted  for  a definite  place  ; and,  in  that  place, 
forming  part  of  a great  and  harmonious  whole,  in  companion- 
ship with  other  art ; and  so  far  from  this  being  a degradation 
to  it — so  far  from  Decorative  art  being  inferior  to  other  art 
because  it  is  fixed  to  a spot — on  the  whole  it  may  be  consid- 
ered as  rather  a piece  of  degradation  that  it  should  be  port- 
able. Portable  art— independent  of  all  place — is  for  the  most 
part  ignoble  art.  Your  little  Dutch  landscape,  which  you  put 
over  your  sideboard  to-day,  and  between  the  windows  to- 
morrow, is  a far  more  contemptible  piece  of  work  than  the  ex- 
tents of  field  and  forest  with  which  Benozzo  has  made  green 
and  beautiful  the  once  melancholy  arcade  of  the  Campo  Santo 
at  Pisa  ; and  the  wild  boar  of  silver  which  you  use  for  a seal, 
or  lock  into  a velvet  case,  is  little  likely  to  be  so  noble  a beast 
as  the  bronze  boar  who  foams  forth  the  fountain  from  under 
his  tusks  in  the  market-place  of  Florence.  It  is,  indeed,  pos- 


56 


TEE  TWO  PATES . 


sible  that  the  portable  picture  or  image  may  be  first-rate  of  its 
kind,  but  it  is  not  first-rate  because  it  is  portable  ; nor  are 
Titian’s  frescoes  less  than  first-rate  because  they  are  fixed  ; nay, 
very  frequently  the  highest  compliment  you  can  pay  to  a cab- 
inet picture  is  to  say — It  is  as  grand  as  a fresco.” 

Keeping,  then,  this  fact  fixed  in  our  minds, — that  all  art 
may  be  decorative,  and  that  the  greatest  art  yet  produced  has 
been  decorative, — we  may  proceed  to  distinguish  the  orders 
and  dignities  of  decorative  art,  thus : — 

L The  first  order  of  it  is  that  which  is  meant  for  places 
where  it  cannot  be  disturbed  or  injured,  and  where  it  can 
be  perfectly  seen  ; and  then  the  main  parts  of  it  should  be, 
and  have  always  been  made,  by  the  great  masters,  as  perfect, 
and  as  full  of  nature  as  possible. 

You  will  every  day  hear  it  absurdly  said  that  room  deco- 
ration should  be  by  flat  patterns— by  dead  colours — by  con- 
ventional monotonies,  and  I know  not  what.  Now,  just  be 
assured  of  this — nobody  ever  yet  used  conventional  art 
to  decorate  with,  when  he  could  do  anything  better,  and 
knew  that  what  he  did  would  be  safe.  Nay,  a great  painter 
will  always  give  you  the  natural  art,  safe  or  not  Correggio 
gets  a commission  to  paint  a room  on  the  ground  floor  of 
a palace  at  Parma  : any  of  our  people — bred  on  our  fine 
modern  principles — would  have  covered  it  with  a diaper, 
or  with  stripes  or  flourishes,  or  mosaic  patterns.  Not  so 
Correggio : he  paints  a thick  trellis  of  vine-leaves,  with  oval 
openings,  and  lovely  children  leaping  through  them  into  the 
room ; and  lovely  children,  depend  upon  it,  are  rather  more 
desirable  decorations  than  diaper,  if  you  can  do  them — but 
they  are  not  quite  so  easily  done.  In  like  manner  Tintoret 
has  to  paint  the  whole  end  of  the  Council  Hall  at  Venice. 
An  orthodox  decorator  would  have  set  himself  to  make  the 
wall  look  like  a wall — Tintoret  thinks  it  would  be  rather 
better,  if  he  can  manage  it,  to  make  it  look  a little  like  Para- 
dise ; — stretches  his  canvas  right  over  the  wall,  and  his  clouds 
right  over  his  canvas  ; brings  the  light  through  his  clouds — * 
all  blue  and  clear — zodiac  beyond  zodiac  ; rolls  away  the 
vaporous  flood  from  under  the  feet  of  saints,  leaving  them  at 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE  AND  DESIGN.  57 

last  in  infinitudes  of  light — unorthodox  in  the  last  degree,  but, 
on  the  whole,  pleasant. 

And  so  in  all  other  cases  whatever,  the  greatest  decorative 
art  is  wholly  unconventional— downright,  pure,  good  painting 
and  sculpture,  but  always  fitted  for  its  place ; and  subordi- 
nated to  the  purpose  it  has  to  serve  in  that  place. 

II.  But  if  art  is  to  be  placed  where  it  is  liable  to  injury — 
to  wear  and  tear ; or  to  alteration  of  its  form  ; as,  for  in- 
stance, on  domestic  utensils,  and  armour,  and  weapons,  and 
dress ; in  which  either  the  ornament  will  be  worn  out  by 
the  usage  of  the  thing,  or  will  be  cast  into  altered  shape  by 
the  play  of  its  folds ; then  it  is  wrong  to  put  beautiful  and 
perfect  art  to  such  uses,  and  you  want  forms  of  inferior  art, 
such  as  will  be  by  their  simplicity  less  liable  to  injury  ; or, 
by  reason  of  their  complexity  and  continuousness,  may  show 
to  advantage,  however  distorted  by  the  folds  they  are  cast 
into. 

And  thus  arise  the  various  forms  of  inferior  decorative  art, 
respecting  which  the  general  law  is,  that  the  lower  the  place 
and  office  of  the  thing,  the  less  of  natural  or  perfect  form 
you  should  have  in  it ; a zigzag  or  a chequer  is  thus  a better, 
because  a more  consistent  ornament  for  a cup  or  platter  than 
a landscape  or  portrait  is  : hence  the  general  definition  of  the 
true  forms  of  conventional  ornament  is,  that  they  consist  in 
the  bestowal  of  as  much  beauty  on  the  object  as  shall  be  con- 
sistent with  its  Material,  its  Place,  and  its  Office. 

Let  us  consider  these  three  modes  of  consistency  a little. 

(A.)  Conventionalism  by  cause  of  inefficiency  of  material. 

If,  for  instance,  we  are  required  to  represent  a human 
figure  with  stone  only,  we  cannot  represent  its  colour ; we 
reduce  its  colour  to  whiteness.  That  is  not  elevating  the 
human  body,  but  degrading  it ; only  it  would  be  a much 
greater  degradation  to  give  its  colour  falsely.  Diminish 
beauty  as  much  as  you  will,  but  do  not  misrepresent  it.  So 
again,  when  we  are  sculpturing  a face,  we  can’t  carve  its  eye- 
lashes. The  face  is  none  the  better  for  wanting  its  eyelashes 

it  is  injured  by  the  want ; but  would  be  much  more  injured 
by  a clumsy  representation  of  them. 


5S 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


Neither  can  we  carve  the  hair.  We  must  be  content  with 
the  conventionalism  of  vile  solid  knots  and  lumps  of  marble, 
instead  of  the  golden  cloud  that  encompasses  the  fair  human 
face  with  its  waving  mystery.  The  lumps  of  marble  are  not 
an  elevated  representation  of  hair — they  are  a degraded  one  ; 
yet  better  than  any  attempt  to  imitate  hair  with  the  incapable 
material. 

In  all  cases  in  which  such  imitation  is  attempted,  instant 
degradation  to  a still  lower  level  is  the  result.  For  the 
effort  to  imitate  shows  that  the  workman  has  only  a base  and 
poor  conception  of  the  beauty  of  the  reality — else  he  would 
know  his  task  to  be  hopeless,  and  give  it  up  at  once  ; so  that 
all  endeavours  to  avoid  conventionalism,  when  the  material 
demands  it,  result  from  insensibility  to  truth,  and  are  among 
the  worst  forms  of  vulgarity.  Hence,  in  the  greatest  Greek 
statues,  the  hair  is  very  slightly  indicated — not  because  the 
sculptor  disdained  hair,  but  because  he  knew  what  it  was  too 
well  to  touch  it  insolently.  I do  not  doubt  but  that  the 
Greek  painters  drew  hair  exactly  as  Titian  does.  Modern 
attempts  to  produce  finished  pictures  on  glass  result  from  the 
same  base  vulgarism.  No  man  who  knows  what  painting 
means,  can  endure  a painted  glass  window  which  emulates 
painter’s  work.  But  he  rejoices  in  a glowing  mosaic  of 
broken  colour  : for  that  is  what  the  glass  has  the  special  gift 
and  right  of  producing.* 

(b.  ) Conventionalism  by  cause  of  inferiority  of  place. 

When  wTork  is  to  be  seen  at  a great  distance,  or  in  dark 
places,  or  in  some  other  imperfect  wray,  it  constantly  becomes 
necessary  to  treat  it  coarsely  or  severely,  in  order  to  make  it 
effective.  The  statues  on  cathedral  fronts,  in  good  times  of 
design,  are  variously  treated  according  to  their  distances : no 
fine  execution  is  put  into  the  features  of  the  Madonna  who 
rules  the  group  of  figures  above  the  south  transept  of  Bouen 
at  150  feet  above  the  ground  ; but  in  base  modern  work,  as 
Milan  Cathedral,  the  sculpture  is  finished  without  any  refer- 
ence to  distance  ; and  the  merit  of  every  statue  is  supposed 


*See  Appendix  II.,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds’s  disappointment. 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE  AND  DESIGN  59 

to  consist  in  the  visitor’s  being  obliged  to  ascend  three  hun- 
dred steps  before  he  can  see  it. 

(c.)  Conventionalism  by  cause  of  inferiority  of  office. 

When  one  piece  of  ornament  is  to  be  subordinated  to  an- 
other (as  the  moulding  is  to  the  sculpture  it  encloses,  or  the 
fringe  of  a drapery  to  the  statue  it  veils),  this  inferior  orna- 
ment needs  to  be  degraded  in  order  to  mark  its  lower  office  ; 
and  this  is  best  done  by  refusing,  more  or  less,  the  introduc- 
tion of  natural  form.  The  less  of  nature  it  contains,  the  more 
degraded  is  the  ornament,  and  the  fitter  for  a humble  place  ; 
but,  however  far  a great  workman  may  go  in  refusing  the 
higher  organisms  of  nature,  he  always  takes  care  to  retain  the 
magnificence  of  natural  lines ; that  is  to  say,  of  the  infinite 
curves,  such  as  I have  analyzed  in  the  fourth  volume  of 
“ Modern  Painters.”  His  copyists,  fancying  that  they  can  fol- 
low him  without  nature,  miss  precisely  the  essence  of  all  the 
work  ; so  that  even  the  simplest  piece  of  Greek  conventional 
ornament  loses  the  whole  of  its  value  in  any  modern  imitation 
of  it,  the  finer  curves  being  always  missed.  Perhaps  one  of 
the  dullest  and  least  justifiable  mistakes  which  have  yet  been 
made  about  my  writing,  is  the  supposition  that  I have  attacked 
or  despised  Greek  work.  I have  attacked  Palladian  work, 
and  modern  imitation  of  Greek  work.  Of  Greek  work  itself 
I have  never  spoken  but  with  a reverence  quite  infinite  : I name 
Phidias  always  in  exactly  the  same  tone  with  which  I speak 
of  Michael  Angelo,  Titian,  and  Dante.  My  first  statement  of 
this  faith,  now  thirteen  years  ago,  was  surely  clear  enough. 

We  shall  see  by  this  light  three  colossal  images  standing  up 
side  by  side,  looming  in  their  great  rest  of  spirituality  above 
the  whole  world  horizon.  Phidias,  Michael  Angelo,  and 
Dante, — from  these  we  may  go  down  step  by  step  among  the 
mighty  men  of  every  age,  securely  and  certainly  observant  of  di- 
minished lustre  in  every  appearance  of  restlessness  and  effort, 
until  the  last  trace  of  inspiration  vanishes  in  the  tottering 
affectation  or  tortured  insanities  of  modern  times.”  (“  Mod- 
ern Painters,  vol.  ii.,  p.  253.)  This  was  surely  plain  speaking 
enough,  and  from  that  day  to  this  my  effort  has  been  not  less 
continually  to  make  the  heart  of  Greek  work  known  than  the 


60 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


heart  of  Gothic  : namely,  the  nobleness  of  conception  of  form 
derived  from  perpetual  study  of  the  figure  ; and  my  complaint 
of  the  modern  architect  has  been  not  that  he  followed  the 
Greeks,  but  that  he  denied  the  first  laws  of  life  in  theirs  as  in 
all  other  art. 

The  fact  is,  that  all  good  subordinate  forms  of  ornamenta- 
tion ever  yet  existent  in  the  world  have  been  invented,  and 
others  as  beautiful  can  only  be  invented,  by  men  primarily 
exercised  in  drawing  or  carving  the  human  figure.  I will  not 
repeat  here  what  I have  already  twice  insisted  upon,  to  the 
students  of  London  and  Manchester,  respecting  the  degrada- 
tion of  temper  and  intellect  which  follows  the  pursuit  of  art 
without  reference  to  natural  form,  as  among  the  Asiatics : 
here,  I will  only  trespass  on  your  patience  so  far  as  to  mark 
the  inseparable  connection  between  figure-drawing  and  good 
ornamental  work,  in  the  great  European  schools,  and  all  that 
are  connected  with  them. 

Tell  me,  then,  first  of  all,  what  ornamental  work  is  usually 
put  before  our  students  as  the  type  of  decorative  perfection  ? 
Raphael's  arabesques  ; are  they  not?  Well,  Raphael  knew  a 
little  about  the  figure,  I suppose,  before  he  drew  them.  I do 
not  say  that  I like  those  arabesques  ; but  there  are  certain 
qualities  in  them  which  are  inimitable  by  modem  designers  ; 
and  those  qualities  are  just  the  fruit  of  the  master’s  figure 
study.  What  is  given  the  student  as  next  to  Raphael’s  work  ? 
Cinquecento  ornament  generally.  Well,  cinquecento  gener- 
ally, with  its  birds,  and  cherubs,  and  wreathed  foliage,  and 
clustered  fruit,  was  the  amusement  of  men  who  habitually  and 
easily  carved  the  figure,  or  painted  it.  All  the  truly  fine 
specimens  of  it  have  figures  or  animals  as  main  parts  of  the 
design. 

“Nay,  but,”  some  anciently  or  medievally  minded  person 
will  exclaim,  “ we  don’t  want  to  study  cinquecento.  We  want 
severer,  purer  conventionalism.”  What  will  you  have? 
Egyptian  ornament  ? Why,  the  whole  mass  of  it  is  made  up 
of  multitudinous  human  figures  in  every  kind  of  action — and 
magnificent  action  ; their  kings  drawing  their  bows  in  their 
chariots,  their  sheaves  of  arrows  rattling  at  their  shoulders  j 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE  AND  DESIGN. 


61 


the  slain  falling  under  them  as  before  a pestilence  ; their  cap- 
tors  driven  before  them  in  astonied  troops  ; and  do  you  ex- 
pect to  imitate  Egyptian  ornament  without  knowing  how  to 
draw  the  human  figure  ? Nay,  but  you  will  take  Christian 
ornament— purest  mediaeval  Christian — thirteenth  century! 
Yes  : and  do  you  suppose  you  will  find  the  Christian  less  hu- 
man ? The  least  natural  and  most  purely  conventional  orna- 
ment of  the  Gothic  schools  is  that  of  their  painted  glass  ; and 
do  you  suppose  painted  glass,  in  the  fine  times,  was  ever 
wrought  without  figures  ? We  have  got  into  the  way,  among 
our  other  modern  wretchednesses,  of  trying  to  make  windows 
of  leaf  diapers,  and  of  strips  of  twisted  red  and  yellow  bands, 
looking  like  the  patterns  of  currant  jelly  on  the  top  of  Christ- 
mas cakes  ; but  every  casement  of  old  glass  contained  a saint’s 
history.  The  windows  of  Bourges,  Chartres,  or  Rouen  have 
ten,  fifteen,  or  twenty  medallions  in  each,  and  each  medallion 
contains  two  figures  at  least,  often  six  or  seven,  representing 
every  event  of  interest  in  the  history  of  the  saint  whose  life  is 
in  question.  Nay,  but,  you  say  those  figures  are  rude  and 
quaint,  and  ought  not  to  be  imitated.  Why,  so  is  the  leafage 
rude  and  quaint,  yet  you  imitate  that.  The  coloured  border 
pattern  of  geranium  or  ivy  leaf  is  not  one  whit  better  drawn, 
or  more  like  geraniums  and  ivy,  than  the  figures  are  like  fig- 
ures ; but  you  call  the  geranium  leaf  idealized — why  don’t  you 
call  the  figures  so  ? The  fact  is,  neither  are  idealized,  but 
both  are  coventionalized  on  the  same  principles,  and  in  the 
same  way  ; and  if  you  want  to  learn  how  to  treat  the  leafage, 
the  only  way  is  to  learn  first  how  to  treat  the  figure.  And 
you  may  soon  test  your  powers  in  this  respect.  Those  old 
workmen  were  not  afraid  of  the  most  familiar  subjects.  The 
windows  of  Chartres  were  presented  by  the  trades  of  the 
town,  and  at  the  bottom  of  each  window  is  a representation 
of  the  proceedings  of  the  tradesmen  at  the  business  which  en- 
abled them  to  pay  for  the  window.  There  are  smiths  at  the 
forge,  curriers  at  their  hides,  tanners  looking  into  their  pits, 
mercers  selling  goods  over  the  counter— all  made  into  beauti- 
ful medallions.  Therefore,  whenever  you  want  to  know 
whether  you  have  got  any  real  power  of  composition  or  adap- 


62 


TEE  TWO  PATES. 


tation  in  ornament,  don’t  be  content  with  sticking  leaves  to- 
gether by  the  ends, — anybody  can  do  that ; but  try  to  conven- 
tionalize a butcher’s  or  a greengrocer’s,  with  Saturday  night 
customers  buying  cabbage  and  beef.  That  will  tell  you  if  you 
can  design  or  not. 

I can  fancy  your  losing  patience  with  me  altogether  just 
now.  “ We  asked  this  fellow  down  to  tell  our  workmen  how 
to  make  shawls,  and  he  is  only  trying  to  teach  them  how  to 
caricature.”  But  have  a little  patience  with  me,  and  examine, 
after  I have  done,  a little  for  yourselves  into  the  history  of  or- 
namental art,  and  you  will  discover  why  I do  this.  You  will 
discover,  I repeat,  that  all  great  ornamental  art  whatever  is 
founded  on  the  effort  of  the  workman  to  draw  the  figure,  and, 
in  the  best  schools,  to  draw  all  that  he  saw  about  him  in  liv- 
ing nature.  The  best  art  of  pottery  is  acknowledged  to  be 
that  of  Greece,  and  all  the  power  of  design  exhibited  in  it, 
down  to  the  merest  zigzag,  arises  primarily  from  the  workman 
having  been  forced  to  outline  nymphs  and  knights  ; from  those 
helmed  and  draped  figures  he  holds  his  power.  Of  Egyptian 
ornament  I have  just  spoken.  You  have  everything  given 
there  that  the  workman  saw ; people  of  his  nation  employed 
in  hunting,  fighting,  fishing,  visiting,  making  love,  building, 
cooking — everything  they  did  is  drawn,  magnificently  or  fa- 
miliarly, as  was  needed.  In  Byzantine  ornament,  saints,  or 
animals  which  are  types  of  various  spiritual  power,  are  the 
main  subjects ; and  from  the  church  down  to  the  piece  of  en- 
amelled metal,  figure, — figure, — figure,  always  principal.  In 
Norman  and  Gothic  work  you  have,  with  all  their  quiet  saints, 
also  other  much  disquieted  persons,  hunting,  feasting,  fight- 
ing, and  so  on ; or  whole  hordes  of  animals  racing  after  each 
other.  In  the  Bayeux  tapestry,  Queen  Matilda  gave,  as  well 
as  she  could, — in  many  respects  graphically  enough, — the 
whole  history  of  the  conquest  of  England.  Thence,  as  you 
increase  in  power  of  art,  you  have  more  and  more  finished 
figures,  up  to  the  solemn  sculptures  of  Wells  Cathedral,  or 
the  cherubic  enrichments  of  the  Venetian  Madonna  dei  Mira- 
coll  Therefore,  I will  tell  you  fearlessly,  for  I know  it  is  true, 
yon  must  raise  your  workman  up  to  life,  or  you  will  never  get 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE  AND  DESIGN.  63 


from  him  one  line  of  well-imagined  conventionalism.  We 
have  at  present  no  good  ornamental  design.  We  can’t  have 
it  yet,  and  we  must  be  patient  if  we  want  to  have  it.  Do  not 
hope  to  feel  the  effect  of  your  schools  at  once,  but  raise  the 
men  as  high  as  you  can,  and  then  let  them  stoop  as  low  as  you 
need  ; no  great  man  ever  minds  stooping.  Encourage  the 
students,  in  sketching  accurately  and  continually  from  nature 
anything  that  comes  in  their  way — still  life,  flowers,  animals  ; 
but,  above  all,  figures  ; and  so  far  as  you  allow  of  any  differ- 
ence between  an  artist’s  training  and  theirs,  let  it  be,  not  in 
what  they  draw,  but  in  the  degree  of  conventionalism  you  re- 
quire in  the  sketch. 

For  my  own  part,  I should  always  endeavour  to  give  thor- 
ough artistical  training  first ; but  I am  not  certain  (the  experi- 
ment being  yet  untried)  what  results  may  be  obtained  by  a 
truly  intelligent  practice  of  conventional  drawing,  such  as  that 
of  the  Egyptians,  Greeks,  or  thirteenth  century  French,  which 
consists  in  the  utmost  possible  rendering  of  natural  form  by 
the  fewest  possible  lines.  The  animal  and  bird  drawing  of 
the  Egyptians  is,  in  their  fine  age,  quite  magnificent  under  its 
conditions  ; magnificent  in  two  ways— first,  in  keenest  per- 
ception of  the  main  forms  and  facts  in  the  creature  ; and, 
secondly,  in  the  grandeur  of  line  by  which  their  forms  are 
abstracted  and  insisted  on,  making  every  asp,  ibis,  and  vulture 
a sublime  spectre  of  asp  or  ibis  or  vulture  power.  The  way 
for  students  to  get  some  of  this  gift  again  ( some  only,  for  I 
believe  the  fulness  of  the  gift  itself  to  be  connected  with  vital 
superstition,  and  with  resulting  intensity  of  reverence  ; people 
were  likely  to  know  something  about  hawks  and  ibises,  when 
to  kill  one  was  to  be  irrevocably  judged  to  death)  is  never  to 
pass  a day  without  drawing  some  animal  from  the  life,  allow- 
ing themselves  the  fewest  possible  lines  and  colours  to  do  it 
with,  but  resolving  that  whatever  is  characteristic  of  the  ani- 
mal shall  in  some  way  or  other  be  shown.*  I repeat,  it  can- 
not yet  be  judged  what  results  might  be  obtained  by  a nobly 
practised  conventionalism  of  this  kind ; but,  however  that 


* Plate  75  in  Vol.  V.  of  Wilkinson’s 
student  an  idea  of  how  to  set  to  work. 


“Ancient  Egypt”  will  give  the 


64 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


may  be,  the  first  fact, — the  necessity  of  animal  and  figure 
drawing,  is  absolutely  certain,  and  no  person  who  shrinks 
from  it  will  ever  become  a great  designer. 

One  great  good  arises  even  from  the  first  step  in  figure 
drawing,  that  it  gets  the  student  quit  at  once  of  the  notion  of 
formal  symmetry.  If  you  learn  only  to  draw  a leaf  well,  you 
are  taught  in  some  of  our  schools  to  turn  it  the  other  way, 
opposite  to  itself ; and  the  two  leaves  set  opposite  wTays  are 
called  “ a design  : ” and  thus  it  is  supposed  possible  to  pro- 
duce ornamentation,  though  you  have  no  more  brains  than  a 
looking-glass  or  a kaleidoscope  has.  But  if  you  once  learn  to 
draw  the  human  figure,  you  will  find  that  knocking  two  men’s 
heads  together  does  not  necessarily  constitute  a good  design  ; 
nay,  that  it  makes  a very  bad  design,  or  no  design  at  all ; and 
you  will  see  at  once  that  to  arrange  a group  of  two  or  more 
figures,  you  must,  though  perhaps  it  may  be  desirable  to  bal- 
ance, or  oppose  them,  at  the  same  time  vary  their  attitudes, 
and  make  one,  not  the  reverse  of  the  other,  but  the  compan- 
ion of  the  other. 

I had  a somewhat  amusing  discussion  on  this  subject  with 
a friend,  only  the  other  day  ; and  one  of  his  retorts  upon  me 
was  so  neatly  put,  and  expresses  so  completely  all  that  can 
either  be  said  or  shown  on  the  opposite  side,  that  it  is  well 
worth  while  giving  it  you  exactly  in  the  form  it  was  sent  to 
me.  My  friend  had  been  maintaining  that  the  essence  of 
ornament  consisted  in  three  things : — contrast,  series,  and 
symmetry.  I replied  (by  letter)  that  “ none  of  them,  nor 


it  isn’t  ornament : and  here,” — (sketching  this  figure  at  the 
side) — “you  have  symmetry  ; but  it  isn’t  ornament.” 

My  friend  replied  : — 

“ Your  materials  were  not  ornament,  because  you  did  not 


A * 


all  of  them  together,  would  produce 
ornament.  Here  ” — (making  a ragged 
blot  with  the  back  of  my  pen 


ment : here,  1,  2,  3,  4,  5,  6,” — writing 
the  numerals)  — “ You  have  series  ; but 


on  the  paper) — “ you  have  iWMj 
contrast  ; but  it  isn’t  orna- 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE  AND  DESIGN.  65 

aPPxy  tnem.  I send  them  to  yon  back,  made  up  into  a choice 
sporting  neckerchief : 


Symmetrical  figure 
Contrast  .... 
Series 


. Unit  of  diaper. 
Comer  ornaments. 
Border  ornaments. 


Each  figure  is  converted  into  a harmony  by  being  revolved 
on  its  two  axes,  the  whole  opposed  in  contrasting  series.” 

My  answer  was— or  rather  was  to  the  effect  (for  I must  ex- 
pand it  a little,  here) — that  his  words,  “ because  you  did  not 
apply  them,”  contained  the  gist  of  the  whole  matter  that 
the  application  of  them,  or  any  other  things,  was  precisely 
the  essence  of  design  ; the  non-application,  or  wrong  applica- 
tion, the  negation  of  design  : that  his  use  of  the  poor  ma- 
terials was  in  this  case  admirable;  and  that  if  he  could 
explain  to  me,  in  clear  words,  the  principles  on  which  he  had 
so  used  them,  he  would  be  doing  a very  great  service  to  all 
students  of  art. 


66 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


“Tell  me,  therefore  (I  asked),  these  main  points : 

“ 1.  How  did  you  determine  the  number  of  figures  you 
would  put  into  the  neckerchief?  Had  there  been  more,  it 
would  have  been  mean  and  ineffective, — a pepper-and-salt 
sprinkling  of  figures.  Had  there  been  fewer,  it  would  have 
been  monstrous.  How  did  you  fix  the  number  ? 

“ 2.  How  did  you  determine  the  breadth  of  the  border  and 
relative  size  of  the  numerals? 

“ 3.  Why  are  there  two  lines  outside  of  the  border,  and  one 
only  inside  ? Why  are  there  no  more  lines  ? Why  not  three 
and  two,  or  three  and  five  ? Why  lines  at  all  to  separate  the 
barbarous  figures ; and  why,  if  lines  at  all,  not  double  or 
treble  instead  of  single  ? 

“4.  Why  did  you  put  the  double  blots  at  the  corners? 
Why  not  at  the  angles  of  the  chequers, — or  in  the  middle  of 
the  border  ? 

“It  is  precisely  your  knowing  why  not  to  do  these  things, 
and  why  to  do  just  what  you  have  done,  which  constituted 
your  power  of  design  ; and  like  all  the  people  I have  ever 
known  who  had  that  power,  you  are  entirely  unconscious  of 
the  essential  laws  by  which  you  work,  and  confuse  other 
people  by  telling  them  that  the  design  depends  on  symmetry 
and  series,  when,  in  fact,  it  depends  entirely  on  your  own 
sense  and  judgment.” 

This  was  the  substance  of  my  last  answer — to  which  (as  I 
knew  beforehand  would  be  the  case)  I got  no  reply  ; but  it 
still  remains  to  be  observed  that  -with  all  the  skill  and  taste 
(especially  involving  the  architect’s  great  trust,  harmony  of 
proportion),  which  my  friend  could  bring  to  bear  on  the  ma- 
terials given  him,  the  result  is  still  only — a sporting  necker- 
chief— that  is  to  say,  the  materials  addressed,  first,  to  reck- 
lessness, in  the  shape  of  a mere  blot ; then  to  computativeness, 
in  a series  of  figures  ; and  then  to  absurdity  and  ignorance, 
in  the  shape  of  an  ill-drawn  caricature — such  materials,  how- 
ever treated,  can  only  work  up  into  what  will  please  reckless, 
computative,  and  vulgar  persons, — that  is  to  say,  into  a sport- 
ing neckerchief.  The  difference  between  this  piece  of  orna- 
mentation and  Correggio’s  painting  at  Parma  lies  simply  and 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE  AND  DESIGN. 


67 


wholly  in  the  additions  (somewhat  large  ones),  of  truth  and 
of  tenderness : in  the  drawing  being  lovely  as  well  as  sym- 
metrical—and  representative  of  realities  as  well  as  agreeably 
disposed.  And  truth,  tenderness,  and  inventive  application 
or  disposition  are  indeed  the  roots  of  ornament — not  contrast, 
nor  symmetry. 

It  ought  yet  farther  to  be  observed,  that  the  nobler  the  ma- 
terials, the  less  their  symmetry  is  endurable.  In  the  present 
case,  the  sense  of  fitness  and  order,  produced  by  the  repeti- 
tion of  the  figures,  neutralizes,  in  some  degree,  their  reckless 
vulgarity  ; and  is  wholly,  therefore,  beneficent  to  them.  But 
draw  the  figures  better,  and  their  repetition  will  become 
painful.  You  may  harmlessly  balance  a mere  geometrical 
form,  and  oppose  one  quatrefoil  or  cusp  by  another  exactly 
like  it.  But  put  two  Apollo  Belvideres  back  to  back,  and  you 
will  not  think  the  symmetry  improves  them.  Whenever  the 
materials  of  ornament  are  noble , they  must  be  various ; and 
repetition  of  parts  is  either  the  sign  of  utterly  bad,  hopeless, 
and  base  work  ; or  of  the  intended  degradation  of  the  parts 
in  which  such  repetition  is  allowed,  in  order  to  foil  others 
more  noble. 

Such,  then,  are  a few  of  the  great  principles,  by  the  enforce- 
ment of  which  you  may  hope  to  promote  the  success  of  the 
modern  student  of  design  ; but  remember,  none  of  these  prin- 
ciples will  be  useful  at  all,  unless  you  understand  them  to  be, 
in  one  profound  and  stern  sense,  useless.* 

That  is  to  say,  unless  you  feel  that  neither  you  nor  I,  nor 
any  one,  can,  in  the  great  ultimate  sense,  teach  anybody  how 
to  make  a good  design. 

If  designing  could  be  taught,  all  the  world  would  learn  : as 
all  the  world  reads — or  calculates.  But  designing  is  not  to  be 
spelled,  nor  summed.  My  men  continually  come  to  me,  in 
my  drawing  class  in  London,  thinking  I am  to  teach  them 
what  is  instantly  to  enable  them  to  gain  their  bread.  “ Please, 
sir,  show  us  how  to  design.”  “ Make  designers  of  us.”  And 

I shall  endeavour  for  the  future  to  put  my  self-contradictions  in 
short  sentences  and  direct  terms,  in  order  to  save  sagacious  persons  the 
trouble  of  looking  for  them. 


63 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


you,  I doubt  not,  partly  expect  me  to  tell  you  to-night  how  to 
make  designers  of  your  Bradford  youths.  Alas  ! I could  as 
soon  tell  you  how  to  make  or  manufacture  an  ear  of  wheat,  as 
to  make  a good  artist  of  any  kind.  I can  analyze  the  wheat 
very  learnedly  for  you — tell  you  there  is  starch  in  it,  and  car- 
bon, and  silex.  I can  give  you  starch,  and  charcoal,  and  flint ; 
but  you  are  as  far  from  your  ear  of  wheat  as  you  were  before. 
All  that  can  possibly  be  done  for  any  one  who  wants  ears  of 
wheat  is  to  show  them  where  to  find  grains  of  wheat,  and  how 
to  sow  them,  and  then,  with  patience,  in  Heaven’s  time,  the 
ears  will  come — or  wall  perhaps  come — ground  and  weather 
permitting.  So  in  this  matter  of  making  artists — first  you 
must  find  your  artist  in  the  grain  ; then  you  must  plant  him  ; 
fence  and  weed  the  field  about  him  ; and  with  patience,  ground 
and  weather  permitting,  you  may  get  an  artist  out  of  him — 
not  otherwise.  And  what  I have  to  speaK  to  you  about,  to- 
night, is  mainly  the  ground  and  the  weatner,  it  being  the  first 
and  quite  most  material  question  in  this  matter,  whether  the 
ground  and  weather  of  Bradford,  or  the  ground  and  weather 
of  England  in  general, — suit  wheat. 

And  observe  in  the  outset,  it  is  not  so  much  what  the  pres- 
ent circumstances  of  England  are,  as  what  we  wish  to  make 
them,  that  we  have  to  consider.  If  you  will  tell  me  what  you 
ultimately  intend  Bradford  to  be,  perhaps  I can  tell  you  what 
Bradford  can  ultimately  produce.  But  you  must  have  your 
minds  clearly  made  up,  and  be  distinct  in  telling  me  what  you 
do  want.  At  present  I don’t  know  what  you  are  aiming  at, 
and  possibly  on  consideration  you  may  feel  some  doubt  whether 
you  know  yourselves.  As  matters  stand,  all  over  England,  as 
soon  as  one  mill  is  at  work,  occupying  two  hundred  hands,  we 
try,  by  means  of  it,  to  set  another  mill  at  work,  occupying  four 
hundred.  That  is  all  simple  and  comprehensive  enough — 
but  what  is  it  to  come  to  ? How  many  mills  do  we  want  ? or  do 
we  indeed  want  no  end  of  mills  ? Let  us  entirely  understand 
each  other  on  this  point  before  we  go  any  farther.  Last  week, 
I drove  from  Bochdale  to  Bolton  Abbey  ; quietly,  in  order  to 
see  the  country,  and  certainly  it  was  well  worth  while.  I never 
went  over  a more  interesting  twenty  miles  than  those  between 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE  AND  DESIGN.  69 

Rochdale  and  Burnley.  Naturally,  the  valley  has  been  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  in  the  Lancashire  hills  ; one  of  the  far  away 
solitudes,  full  of  old  shepherd  ways  of  life.  At  this  time  there 

are  not,— I speak  deliberately,  and  I believe  quite  literally, 

there  are  not,  I think,  more  than  a thousand  yards  of  road  to 
be  traversed  anywhere,  without  passing  a furnace  or  mill. 

Now,  is  that  the  kind  of  thing  you  want  to  come  to  every- 
where ? Because,  if  it  be,  and  you  tell  me  so  distinctly,  I 
think  I can  make  several  suggestions  to-night,  and  could  make 
more  if  you  give  me  time,  which  would  materially  advance 
your  object.  The  extent  of  our  operations  at  present  is  more 
or  less  limited  by  the  extent  of  coal  and  ironstone,  but  wTe 
have  not  yet  learned  to  make  proper  use  of  our  clay.  Over 
the  greater  part  of  England,  south  of  the  manufacturing  dis- 
tricts, there  are  magnificent  beds  of  various  kinds  of  useful 
clay  ; and  I believe  that  it  would  not  be  difficult  to  point  out 
modes  of  employing  it  which  might  enable  us  to  turn  nearly 
the  whole  of  the  south  of  England  into  a brickfield,  as  we  have 
already  turned  nearly  the  whole  of  the  north  into  a coal-pit. 

I say  “ nearly  ” the  whole,  because,  as  you  are  doubtless  aware, 
there  are  considerable  districts  in  the  south  composed  of  chalk 
renowned  up  to  the  present  time  for  their  downs  and  mutton. 
But,  X think,  by  examining  carefully  into  the  conceivable  uses 
of  chalk,  we  might  discover  a quite  feasible  probability  of  turn- 
ing all  the  chalk  districts  into  a limekiln,  as  we  turn  the  clay 
districts  into  a brickfield.  There  would  then  remain  nothing 
but  the  mountain  districts  to  be  dealt  with  ; but,  as  we  have 
not  yet  ascertained  all  the  uses  of  clay  and  chalk,  still  less  have 
we  ascertained  those  of  stone  ; and  I think,  by  draining  the 
useless  inlets  of  the  Cumberland,  Welsh,  and  Scotch  lakes, 
and  turning  them,  with  their  rivers,  into  navigable  reservoirs 
and  canals,  there  would  be  no  difficulty  in  working  the  whole 
of  our  mountain  districts  as  a gigantic  quarry  of  slate  and 
granite,  from  which  all  the  rest  of  the  world  might  be  sup- 
plied with  roofing  and  building  stone. 

Is  this,  then,  what  you  want  ? You  are  going  straight  at  it 
at  present  ; and  I have  only  to  ask  under  what  limitations  I 
am  to  conceive  or  describe  your  final  success  ? Or  shall  there 


70 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


be  no  limitations  ? There  are  none  to  your  powers  ; every 
day  puts  new  machinery  at  your  disposal,  and  increases,  with 
your  capital,  the  vastness  of  your  undertakings.  The  changes 
in  the  state  of  this  country  are  now  so  rapid,  that  it  would  be 
wholly  absurd  to  endeavour  to  lay  down  laws  of  art  education 
for  it  under  its  present  aspect  and  circumstances  ; and  there- 
fore I must  necessarily  ask,  how  much  of  it  do  you  seriously 
intend  within  the  next  fifty  years  to  be  coal-pit,  brickfield,  or 
quarry?  For  the  sake  of  distinctness  of  conclusion,  I will 
suppose  your  success  absolute  : that  from  shore  to  shore  the 
whole  of  the  island  is  to  be  set  as  thick  with  chimneys  as  the 
masts  stand  in  the  docks  of  Liverpool : and  there  shall  be  no 
meadows  in  it ; no  trees  ; no  gardens ; only  a little  corn  grown 
upon  the  housetops,  reaped  and  threshed  by  steam  : that  you 
do  not  leave  even  room  for  roads,  but  travel  either  over  the 
roofs  of  your  mills,  on  viaducts  ; or  under  their  floors,  in  tun- 
nels : that,  the  smoke  having  rendered  the  light  of  the  sun 
unserviceable,  you  work  always  by  the  light  of  your  own  gas : 
that  no  acre  of  English  ground  shall  be  without  its  shaft  and 
its  engine  ; and  therefore,  no  spot  of  English  ground  left,  on 
which  it  shall  be  possible  to  stand,  without  a definite  and  cal- 
culable chance  of  being  blown  off  it,  at  any  moment,  into  small 
pieces. 

Under  these  circumstances,  (if  this  is  to  be  the  future  of 
England,)  no  designing  or  any  other  development  of  beautiful 
art  will  be  possible.  Do  not  vex  your  minds,  nor  waste  your 
money  with  any  thought  or  effort  in  the  matter.  Beautiful 
art  can  only  be  produced  by  people  who  have  beautiful  things 
about  them,  and  leisure  to  look  at  them ; and  unless  you  pro- 
vide some  elements  of  beauty  for  your  workmen  to  be  sur- 
rounded by,  you  will  find  that  no  elements  of  beauty  can  be 
invented  by  them. 

I was  struck  forcibly  by  the  bearing  of  this  great  fact  upon 
our  modern  efforts  at  ornamentation  in  an  afternoon  walk, 
last  week,  in  the  suburbs  of  one  of  our  large  manufacturing 
towns.  I was  thinking  of  the  difference  in  the  effect  upon 
the  designer’s  mind,  between  the  scene  which  I then  came 
upon,  and  the  scene  which  would  have  presented  itself  to  the 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE  AND  DESIGN.  Ti. 

eyes  of  any  designer  of  the  middle  ages,  when  he  left  his 
workshop.  Just  outside  the  town  I came  upon  an  old  Eng- 
lish cottage,  or  mansion,  I hardly  know  which  to  call  it,  set 
close  under  the  hill,  and  beside  the  river,  perhaps  built  some- 
where in  the  Charles’s  time,  with  mullioned  windows  and  a 
low  arched  porch ; round  which,  in  the  little  triangular  gar- 
den, one  can  imagine  the  family  as  they  used  to  sit  in  old 
summer  times,  the  ripple  of  the  river  heard  faintly  through 
the  sweetbrier  hedge,  and  the  sheep  on  the  far-off  wolds  shin- 
ing in  the  evening  sunlight.  There,  uninhabited  for  many 
and  many  a year,  it  had  been  left  in  unregarded  havoc  of 
ruin  ; the  garden-gate  still  swung  loose  to  its  latch  ; the  gar- 
den, blighted  utterly  into  a field  of  ashes,  not  even  a weed 
taking  root  there  ; the  roof  torn  into  shapeless  rents ; the 
shutters  hanging  about  the  windows  in  rags  of  rotten  wood  ; 
before  its  gate,  the  stream  which  had  gladdened  it  now  soak- 
ing  slowly  by,  black  as  ebony,  and  thick  with  curdling  scum  j 
the  bank  above  it  trodden  into  unctuous,  sooty  slime  : far  in 
front  of  it,  between  it  and  the  old  hills,  the  furnaces  of  the 
city  foaming  forth  perpetual  plague  of  sulphurous  darkness  ; 
the  volumes  of  their  storm  clouds  coiling  low  over  a waste  of 
grassless  fields,  fenced  from  each  other,  not  by  hedges,  but 
by  slabs  of  square  stone,  like  gravestones,  riveted  together 
with  iron. 

That  was  your  scene  for  the  designer’s  contemplation  in  his 
afternoon  walk  at  Rochdale.  Now  fancy  what  was  the  scene 
which  presented  itself,  in  his  afternoon  walk,  to  a designer  of 
the  Gothic  school  of  Pisa— Nino  Pisano,  or  any  of  his  men. 

On  each  side  of  a bright  river  he  saw  rise  a line  of  brighter 
palaces,  arched  and  pillared,  and  inlaid  with  deep  red  por- 
phyry, and  with  serpentine  ; along  the  quays  before  their 
gates  were  riding  troops  of  knights,  noble  in  face  and  form, 
dazzling  in  crest  and  shield  ; horse  and  man  one  labyrinth  of 
quaint  colour  and  gleaming  light— the  purple,  and  silver,  and 
scarlet  fringes  flowing  over  the  strong  limbs  and  clashing 
mail,  like  sea- waves  over  rocks  at  sunset.  Opening  on  each 
side  from  the  river  were  gardens,  courts,  and  cloisters  ; long 
successions  of  white  pillars  among  wreaths  of  vine  ; leaping 


72 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


of  fountains  through  buds  of  pomegranate  and  orange  : and 
still  along  the  garden-paths,  and  under  and  through  the  crim- 
son of  the  pomegranate  shadows,  moving  slowly,  groups  of 
the  fairest  women  that  Italy  ever  saw — fairest,  because  purest 
and  thoughtfullest ; trained  in  all  high  knowledge,  as  in  all 
courteous  art — in  dance,  in  song,  in  sweet  wit,  in  lofty  learn- 
ing, in  loftier  courage,  in  loftiest  love — able  alike  to  cheer,  to 
enchant,  or  save,  the  souls  of  men.  Above  all  this  scenery  of 
perfect  human  life,  rose  dome  and  bell-tower,  burning  with 
white  alabaster  and  gold  ; beyond  dome  and  bell-tower  the 
slopes  of  mighty  hills,  hoary  with  olive  ; far  in  the  north, 
above  a purple  sea  of  peaks  of  solemn  Apennine,  the  clear, 
sharp-cloven  Carrara  mountains  sent  up  their  steadfast  flames 
of  marble  summit  into  amber  sky ; the  great  sea  itself, 
scorching  with  expanse  of  light,  stretching  from  their  feet  to 
the  Gorgonian  isles  ; and  over  all  these,  ever  present,  near  or 
far — seen  through  the  leaves  of  vine,  or  imaged  with  all  its 
march  of  clouds  in  the  Arno’s  stream,  or  set  with  its  depth  of 
blue  close  against  the  golden  hair  and  burning  cheek  of  lady 
and  knight, — that  untroubled  and  sacred  sky,  which  was  to  all 
men,  in  those  days  of  innocent  faith,  indeed  the  unquestioned 
abode  of  spirits,  as  the  earth  was  of  men  ; and  which  opened 
straight  through  its  gates  of  cloud  and  veils  of  dew  into  the 
awfulness  of  the  eternal  world ; — a heaven  in  which  every 
cloud  that  passed  was  literally  the  chariot  of  an  angel,  and 
every  ray  of  its  Evening  and  Morning  streamed  from  the 
throne  of  God. 

M hat  think  you  of  that  for  a school  of  design  ? 

I do  not  bring  this  contrast  before  you  as  a ground  of 
hopelessness  in  our  task ; neither  do  I look  for  any  possible 
renovation  of  the  Republic  of  Pisa,  at  Bradford,  in  the  nine- 
teenth century ; but  I put  it  before  you  in  order  that  you 
may  be  aware  precisely  of  the  kind  of  difficulty  you  have  to 
meet,  and  may  then  consider  with  yourselves  how  far  you  can 
meet  it.  To  men  surrounded  by  the  depressing  and  monot- 
onous circumstances  of  English  manufacturing  life,  depend 
upon  it,  design  is  simply  impossible.  This  is  the  most  dis- 
tinct of  all  the  experiences  I have  had  in  dealing  with  the 


MODEEN  MANUFACTURE  AND  DESIGN. 


73 


modern  workman.  He  is  intelligent  and  ingenious  in  the 
highest  degree  —subtle  in  touch  and  keen  in  sight : but  he 
is,  generally  speaking,  wholly  destitute  of  designing  power. 
And  if  you  want  to  give  him  the  power,  you  must  give  him 
the  materials,  and  put  him  in  the  circumstances  for  it.  De- 
sign is  not  the  offspring  of  idle  fancy  : it  is  the  studied  result 
of  accumulative  observation  and  delightful  habit.  Without 
observation  and  experience,  no  design — without  peace  and 
pleasurableness  in  occupation,  no  design — and  all  the  lectur- 
ings, and  teachings,  and  prizes,  and  principles  of  art,  in  the 
world,  are  of  no  use,  so  long  as  you  don’t  surround  your  men 
with  happy  influences  and  beautiful  things.  It  is  impossible 
for  them  to  have  right  ideas  about  colour,  unless  they  see  the 
lovely  colours  of  nature  unspoiled  ; impossible  for  them  to 
supply  beautiful  incident  and  action  in  their  ornament,  unless 
they  see  beautiful  incident  and  action  in  the  world  about  them. 
Inform  their  minds,  refine  their  habits,  and  you  form  and 
refine  their  designs  ; but  keep  them  illiterate,  uncomfortable, 
and  in  the  midst  of  unbeautiful  things,  and  whatever  they  do 
will  still  be  spurious,  vulgar,  and  valueless. 

I repeat,  that  I do  not  ask  you  nor  wish  you  to  build  a new 
Pisa  for  them.  We  don’t  want  either  the  life  or  the  decora- 
tions of  the  thirteenth  century  back  again  ; and  the  circum- 
stances with  which  you  must  surround  your  workmen  are 
those  simply  of  happy  modern  English  life,  because  the  de- 
signs you  have  now  to  ask  for  from  your  workmen  are  such 
as  will  make  modern  English  life  beautiful.  All  that  gor- 
geousness of  the  middle  ages,  beautiful  as  it  sounds  in 
description,  noble  as  in  many  respects  it  was  in  reality,  had, 
nevertheless,  for  foundation  and  for  end,  nothing  but  the 
pride  of  life — the  pride  of  the  so-called  superior  classes ; a 
pride  which  supported  itself  by  violence  and  robbery,  and  led 
in  the  end  to  the  destruction  both  of  the  arts  themselves  and 
the  States  in  which  they  flourished. 

The  great  lesson  of  history  is,  that  all  the  fine  arts  hitherto 
— having  been  supported  by  the  selfish  power  of  the  noblesse, 
and  never  having  extended  their  range  to  the  comfort  or  the 
relief  of  the  mass  of  the  people — the  arts,  I say,  thus  prac- 


74 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


tised,  and  thus  matured,  have  only  accelerated  the  ruin  of  the 
States  they  adorned  ; and  at  the  moment  when,  in  any  king- 
dom, you  point  to  the  triumphs  of  its  greatest  artists,  you 
point  also  to  the  determined  hour  of  the  kingdom’s  decline. 
The  names  of  great  painters  are  like  passing  bells  : in  the 
name  of  Velasquez,  you  hear  sounded  the  fall  of  Spain  ; in 
in  the  name  of  Titian,  that  of  Venice ; in  the  name  of 
Leonardo,  that  of  Milan  ; in  the  name  of  Raphael,  that  of 
Rome.  And  there  is  profound  justice  in  this  ; for  in  propor- 
tion to  the  nobleness  of  the  power  is  the  guilt  of  its  use  for 
purposes  vain  or  vile  ; and  hitherto  the  greater  the  art,  the 
more  surely  has  it  been  used,  and  used  solely,  for  the  decora- 
tion of  pride,*  or  the  provoking  of  sensuality,  xlnother  course 
lies  open  to  us.  "VVe  may  abandon  the  hope — or  if  you  like 
the  words  better — we  may  disdain  the  temptation,  of  the 
pomp  and  grace  of  Italy  in  her  youth.  For  us  there  can  be 
no  more  the  throne  of  marble — for  us  no  more  the  vault  of 
gold — but  for  us  there  is  the  loftier  and  lovelier  privilege  of 
bringing  the  power  and  charm  of  art  within  the  reach  of  the 
humble  and  the  poor  ; and  as  the  magnificence  of  past  ages 
failed  by  its  narrowness  and  its  pride,  ours  may  prevail  and 
continue,  by  its  universality  and  its  lowliness. 

And  thus,  between  the  picture  of  too  laborious  England, 
which  we  imagined  as  future,  and  the  picture  of  too  luxurious 
Italy,  which  we  remember  in  the  past,  there  may  exist — there 
will  exist,  if  we  do  our  duty — an  intermediate  condition, 
neither  oppressed  by  labour  nor  wasted  in  vanity — the  con- 
dition of  a peaceful  and  thoughtful  temperance  in  aims,  and 
acts,  and  arts. 

We  are  about  to  enter  upon  a period  of  our  world’s  history 
in  which  domestic  life,  aided  by  the  arts  of  peace,  will  slowly, 
but  at  last  entirely,  supersede  public  life  and  the  arts  of  war. 
For  our  own  England,  she  will  not,  I believe,  be  blasted 
throughout  with  furnaces  ; nor  will  she  be  encumbered  with 
palaces.  I trust  she  will  keep  her  green  fields,  her  cottages, 
and  her  homes  of  middle  life  ; but  these  ought  to  be,  and  I 

* Whether  religious  or  profane  pride, — chapel  or  banqueting  room,— 
is  no  matter. 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE  AND  DESIGN. 


75 


trust  will  be  enriched  with  a useful,  truthful,  substantial  form 
of  art.  We  want  now  no  more  feasts  of  the  gods,  nor  martyr- 
doms of  the  saints ; we  have  no  need  of  sensuality,  no  place 
for  superstition,  or  for  costly  insolence.  Let  us  have  learned 
and  faithful  historical  painting — touching  and  thoughtful  rep- 
resentations of  human  nature,  in  dramatic  painting  ; poetical 
and  familiar  renderings  of  natural  objects  and  of  landscape  *, 
and  rational,  deeply-felt  realizations  of  the  events  which  are 
the  subjects  of  our  religious  faith.  And  let  these  things  we 
want,  as  far  as  possible,  be  scattered  abroad  and  made  ac- 
cessible to  all  men. 

So  also,  in  manufacture : we  require  work  substantial 
rather  than  rich  in  make ; and  refined,  rather  than  splendid 
in  design.  Your  stuffs  need  not  be  such  as  would  catch  the 
eye  of  a duchess  ; but  they  should  be  such  as  may  at  once 
serve  the  need,  and  refine  the  taste,  of  a cottager.  The  pre- 
vailing error  in  English  dress,  especially  among  the  lower 
orders,  is  a tendency  to  flimsiness  and  gaudiness,  arising 
mainly  from  the  awkward  imitation  of  their  superiors.*  It 
should  be  one  of  the  first  objects  of  all  manufacturers  to  pro- 
duce stuffs  not  only  beautiful  and  quaint  in  design,  but  also 
adapted  for  every-day  service,  and  decorous  in  humble  and 
secluded  life.  And  you  must  remember  always  that  your 
business,  as  manufacturers,  is  to  form  the  market,  as  much  as 

* If  their  superiors  would  give  them  simplicity  and  economy  to 
imitate,  it  would,  in  the  issue,  be  well  for  themselves,  as  well  as  for 
those  whom  they  guide.  The  typhoid  fever  of  passion  for  dress,  and 
all  other  display,  which  has  struck  the  upper  classes  of  Europe  at  this 
time,  is  one  of  the  most  dangerous  political  elements  we  have  to  deal 
with.  Its  wickedness  I have  shown  elsewhere  (Polit.  Economy  of  Art, 
p.  62,  et  seq.) ; but  its  wickedness  is,  in  the  minds  of  most  persons,  a 
matter  of  no  importance.  I wish  I had  time  also  to  show  them  its 
danger.  I cannot  enter  here  into  political  investigation  ; but  this  is  a 
certain  fact,  that  the  wasteful  and  vain  expenses  at  present  indulged  in 
by  the  upper  classes  are  hastening  the  advance  of  republicanism  more 
than  any  other  element  of  modern  change.  No  agitators,  no  clubs,  no 
epidemical  errors,  ever  were,  or  will  be,  fatal  to  social  order  in  any  na- 
tion. Nothing  but  the  guilt  of  the  upper  classes,  wanton,  accumulated, 
reckless,  and  merciless,  ever  overthrows  them.  Of  such  guilt  they  have 
now  much  to  answer  for — let  them  look  to  it  in  time, 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


76 

to  supply  it.  If,  in  shortsighted  and  reckless  eagerness  for 
wealth,  you  catch  at  every  humour  of  the  populace  as  it  shapes 
itself  into  momentary  demand — if,  in  jealous  rivalry  with 
neighbouring  States,  or  with  other  producers,  you  try  to 
attract  attention  by  singularities,  novelties,  and  gaudinesses — 
to  make  every  design  an  advertisement,  and  pilfer  every  idea 
of  a successful  neighbour’s,  that  you  may  insidiously  imitate 
it,  or  pompously  eclipse — no  good  design  will  ever  be  possi- 
ble to  you,  or  perceived  by  you.  You  may,  by  accident, 
snatch  the  market ; or,  by  energy,  command  it ; you  may 
obtain  the  confidence  of  the  public,  and  cause  the  ruin  of 
opponent  houses  ; or  you  may,  with  equal  justice  of  fortune, 
be  ruined  by  them.  But  whatever  happens  to  you,  this,  at 
least,  is  certain,  that  the  whole  of  your  life  will  have  been 
spent  in  corrupting  public  taste  and  encouraging  public  ex- 
travagance. Every  preference  you  have  won  by  gaudiness 
must  have  been  based  on  the  purchasers  vanity ; every  de- 
mand you  have  created  by  novelty  has  fostered  in  the  con- 
sumer a habit  of  discontent ; and  when  you  retire  into  in- 
active life,  you  may,  as  a subject  of  consolation  for  your 
declining  years,  reflect  that  precisely  according  to  the  extent 
of  your  past  operations,  your  life  has  been  successful  in  re- 
tarding the  arts,  tarnishing  the  virtues,  and  confusing  the 
manners  of  your  country. 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  if  you  resolve  from  the  first  that, 
so  far  as  you  can  ascertain  or  discern  what  is  best,  you  will 
produce  what  is  best,  on  an  intelligent  consideration  of  the 
probable  tendencies  and  possible  tastes  of  the  people  whom  you 
supply,  you  may  literally  become  more  influential  for  all  kinds 
of  good  than  many  lecturers  on  art,  or  many  treatise-writers 
on  morality.  Considering  the  materials  dealt  with,  and  the 
crude  state  of  art  knowledge  at  the  time,  I do  not  know  that 
any  more  wide  or  effective  influence  in  public  taste  was  ever 
exercised  than  that  of  the  Staffordshire  manufacture  of  pottery 
under  William  Wedgwood,  and  it  only  rests  with  the  manu- 
facturer in  every  other  business  to  determine  whether  he  will, 
in  like  manner,  make  his  wares  educational  instruments,  or 
mere  drugs  of  the  market.  You  all  should  be,  in  a certain 


IMAGINATION  IN  ARCHITECTURE , 


77 


sense,  authors  : you  must,  indeed,  first  catch  the  public  eye, 
as  an  author  must  the  public  ear  \ but  once  gain  your  audi- 
ence, or  observance,  and  as  it  is  in  the  writer’s  power  thence- 
forward to  publish  what  will  educate  as  it  amuses— so  it  is  in 
yours  to  publish  what  will  educate  as  it  adorns.  Nor  is  this 
surely  a subject  of  poor  ambition.  I hear  it  said  continually 
that  men  are  too  ambitious : alas ! to  me,  it  seems  they  are 
never  enough  ambitious.  How  many  are  content  to  be  merely 
the  thriving  merchants  of  a state,  when  they  might  be  its 
guides,  counsellors,  and  rulers— wielding  powers  of  subtle  but 
gigantic  beneficence,  in  restraining  its  follies  while  they  sup- 
plied its  wants.  Let  such  duty,  such  ambition,  be  once  ac- 
cepted in  their  fulness,  and  the  best  glory  of  European  art 
and  of  European  manufacture  may  yet  be  to  come.  The 
paintings  of  Raphael  and  of  Buonaroti  gave  force  to  the  false- 
hoods of  superstition,  and  majesty  to  the  imaginations  of  sin  ; 
but  the  arts  of  England  may  have,  for  their  task,  to  inform 
the  soul  with  truth,  and  touch  the  heart  with  compassion. 
The  steel  of  Toledo  and  the  silk  of  Genoa  did  but  give  strength 
to  oppression  and  lustre  to  pride  : let  it  be  for  the  furnace 
and  for  the  loom  of  England,  as  they  have  already  richly 
earned,  still  more  abundantly  to  bestow,  comfort  on  the  indi- 
gent, civilization  on  the  rude,  and  to  dispense,  through  the 
peaceful  homes  of  nations,  the  grace  and  the  preciousness  of 
simple  adornment,  and  useful  possession. 


LECTURE  IV. 

INFLUENCE  OF  IMAGINATION  IN  ARCHITECTURE. 

An  Address  Delivered  to  the  Members  of  the  Architectural 
Association,  in  Lyon’s  Inn  Hall,  1857. 

If  we  were  to  be  asked  abruptly,  and  required  to  answer 
briefly,  what  qualities  chiefly  distinguish  great  artists  from 
feeble  artists,  we  should  answer,  I suppose,  first,  their  sen- 
sibility and  tenderness ; secondly,  their  imagination  ; and 


78 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


thirdly,  their  industry.  Some  of  us  might,  perhaps,  doubt 
the  justice  of  attaching  so  much  importance  to  this  last  char- 
acter, because  we  have  all  known  clever  men  who  were  indo- 
lent, and  dull  men  who  were  industrious.  But  though  you 
may  have  known  clever  men  who  were  indolent,  you  never 
knew  a great  man  who  was  so  ; and,  during  such  investigation 
as  I have  been  able  to  give  to  the  lives  of  the  artists  whose 
works  are  in  all  points  noblest,  no  fact  ever  looms  so  large 
upon  me — no  law  remains  so  steadfast  in  the  universality  of 
its  application,  as  the  fact  and  law  that  they  are  all  great 
workers  : nothing  concerning  them  is  matter  of  more  aston- 
ishment than  the  quantity  they  have  accomplished  in  the 
given  length  of  their  life  ; and  when  I hear  a young  man 
spoken  of,  as  giving  promise  of  high  genius,  the  first  question 
I ask  about  him  is  always — 

Does  he  work  ? 

But  though  this  quality  of  industry  is  essential  to  an  artist, 
it  does  not  in  anywise  make  an  artist ; many  people  are  busy, 
whose  doings  are  little  worth.  Neither  does  sensibility  make 
an  artist ; since,  as  I hope,  many  can  feel  both  strongly  and 
nobly,  who  yet  care  nothing  about  art.  But  the  gifts  which 
distinctively  mark  the  artist — without  which  he  must  be  feeble 
in  life,  forgotten  in  death — with  which  he  may  become  one  of 
the  shakers  of  the  earth,  and  one  of  the  signal  lights  in  heaven 
— are  those  of  sympathy  and  imagination.  I will  not  occupy 
your  time,  nor  incur  the  risk  of  your  dissent,  by  endeavouring 
to  give  any  close  definition  of  this  last  word.  We  all  have  a 
general  and  sufficient  idea  of  imagination,  and  of  its  work 
with  our  hands  and  in  our  hearts  : we  understand  it,  I sup- 
pose, as  the  imaging  or  picturing  of  new  things  in  our 
thoughts  ; and  we  always  show  an  involuntary  respect  for  this 
power,  wherever  we  can  recognize  it,  acknowledging  it  to  be 
a greater  power  than  manipulation,  or  calculation,  or  observa- 
tion, or  any  other  human  faculty.  If  we  see  an  old  woman 
spinning  at  the  fireside,  and  distributing  her  thread  dexter* 
ously  from  the  distaff,  we  respect  her  for  her  manipulation — 
if  we  ask  her  how  much  she  expects  to  make  in  a year,  and 
she  answers  quickly,  we  respect  her  for  her  calculation — if 


IMAGINATION  IN  ARCHITECTURE. 


79 


she  is  watching  at  the  same  time  that  none  of  her  grand- 
children fall  into  the  fire,  we  respect  her  for  her  observation 
— yet  for  all  this  she  may  still  be  a commonplace  old  woman 
enough.  But  if  she  is  all  the  time  telling  her  grandchildren 
a fairy  tale  out  of  her  head,  we  praise  her  for  her  imagination, 
and  say,  she  must  be  a rather  remarkable  old  woman. 

Precisely  in  like  manner,  if  an  architect  does  his  working- 
drawing well,  we  praise  him  for  his  manipulation — if  he  keeps 
closely  within  his  contract,  we  praise  him  for  his  honest  arith- 
metic— if  he  looks  well  to  the  laying  of  his  beams,  so  that 
nobody  shall  drop  through  the  floor,  we  praise  him  for  his 
observation.  But  he  must,  somehow,  tell  us  a fairy  tale  out 
of  his  head  beside  all  this,  else  we  cannot  praise  him  for  his 
imagination,  nor  speak  of  him  as  we  did  of  the  old  woman,  as 
being  in  any  wise  out  of  the  common  way,  a rather  remarkable 
architect.  It  seemed  to  me,  therefore,  as  if  it  might  interest 
you  to-night,  if  we  were  to  consider  together  what  fairy  tales 
are,  in  and  by  architecture,  to  be  told — what  there  is  for  you 
to  do  in  this  severe  art  of  yours  “ out  of  your  heads,”  as  well 
as  by  your  hands. 

Perhaps  the  first  idea  which  a young  architect  is  apt  to  be 
allured  by,  as  a head-problem  in  these  experimental  days,  is 
its  being  incumbent  upon  him  to  invent  a “ new  style  ” worthy 
of  modern  civilization  in  general,  and  of  England  in  particu- 
lar ; a style  worthy  of  our  engines  and  telegraphs  ; as  expan- 
sive as  steam,  and  as  sparkling  as  electricity. 

But,  if  there  are  any  of  my  hearers  who  have  been  im- 
pressed with  this  sense  of  inventive  duty,  may  I ask  them 
first,  whether  their  plan  is  that  every  inventive  architect 
among  us  shall  invent  a new  style  for  himself,  and  have  a 
county  set  aside  for  his  conceptions,  or  a province  for  his 
practice  ? Or,  must  every  architect  invent  a little  piece  of  the 
new  style,  and  all  put  it  together  at  last  like  a dissected  map  ? 
And  if  so,  when  the  new  style  is  invented,  what  is  to  be  done 
next  ? I will  grant  you  this  Eldorado  of  imagination — but 
can  you  have  more  than  one  Columbus  ? Or,  if  you  sail  in 
company,  and  divide  the  prize  of  your  discovery  and  the  hon- 
our thereof,  who  is  to  come  after  you  clustered  Columbuses  ? 


30 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


to  what  fortunate  islands  of  style  are  your  architectural  de« 
scendants  to  sail,  avaricious  of  new  lands  ? When  our  desired 
style  is  invented,  will  not  the  best  we  can  all  do  be  simply-— 
to  build  in  it  ? — and  cannot  you  now  do  that  in  styles  that  are 
known?  Observe,  I grant,  for  the  sake  of  your  argument, 
what  perhaps  many  of  you  know  that  I would  not  grant  other- 
wise— than  a new  style  can  be  invented.  I grant  you  not  only 
this,  but  that  it  shall  be  wholly  different  from  any  that  was 
ever  practised  before.  We  will  suppose  that  capitals  are  to 
be  at  the  bottom  of  pillars  instead  of  the  top  ; and  that  but- 
tresses shall  be  on  the  tops  of  pinnacles  instead  of  at  the  bot- 
tom ; that  you  roof  your  apertures  with  stones  which  shall 
neither  be  arched  nor  horizontal ; and  that  you  compose  your 
decoration  of  lines  which  shall  neither  be  crooked  nor  straight. 
The  furnace  and  the  forge  shall  be  at  your  service  : you  shall 
draw  out  your  plates  of  glass  and  beat  out  your  bars  of  iron 
till  you  have  encompassed  us  all, — if  your  style  is  of  the  prac- 
tical kind, — with  endless  perspective  of  black  skeleton  and 
blinding  square, — or  if  your  style  is  to  be  of  the  ideal  kind — 
you  shall  wreathe  your  streets  with  ductile  leafage,  and  roof 
them  with  variegated  crystal — you  shall  put,  if  you  will,  all 
London  under  one  blazing  dome  of  many  colours  that  shall 
light  the  clouds  round  it  with  its  flashing,  as  far  as  to  the  sea. 
And  still,  I ask  you,  What  after  this  ? Do  you  suppose  those 
imaginations  of  yours  will  ever  lie  down  there  asleep  beneath 
the  shade  of  your  iron  leafage,  or  within  the  coloured  light  of 
your  enchanted  dome?  Not  so.  Those  souls,  and  fancies, 
and  ambitions  of  yours,  are  wholly  infinite  ; and,  whatever 
may  be  done  by  others,  you  will  still  want  to  do  something 
for  yourselves  ; if  you  cannot  rest  content  with  Palladio,  nei- 
ther will  you  with  Paxton  : all  the  metal  and  glass  that  ever 
were  melted  have  not  so  much  weight  in  them  as  will  clog  the 
wings  of  one  human  spirit’s  aspiration. 

If  you  will  think  over  this  quietly  by  yourselves,  and  can 
get  the  noise  out  of  your  ears  of  the  perpetual,  empty,  idle, 
incomparably  idiotic  talk  about  the  necessity  of  some  novelty 
in  architecture,  you  will  soon  see  that  the  very  essence  of  9. 
Style,  properly  so  called,  is  that  it  should  be  practised  for 


IMAGINATION  IN  ARCHITECTURE. 


81 


ages,  and  applied  to  all  purposes  ; and  that  so  long  as  any- 
given  style  is  in  practice,  all  that  is  left  for  individual  imagina- 
tion to  accomplish  must  be  within  the  scope  of  that  style,  not 
in  the  invention  of  a new  one.  If  there  are  any  here,  there- 
fore, who  hope  to  obtain  celebrity  by  the  invention  of  some 
strange  way  of  building  which  must  convince  all  Europe  into 
its  adoption,  to  them,  for  the  moment,  I must  not  be  under- 
stood to  address  myself,  but  only  to  those  who  would  be  con- 
tent with  that  degree  of  celebrity  which  an  artist  may  enjoy 
who  works  in  the  manner  of  his  forefathers  which  the 
builder  of  Salisbury  Cathedral  might  enjoy  in  England,  though 
he  did  not  invent  Gothic  ; and  which  Titian  might  enjoy  at 
Venice,  though  he  did  not  invent  oil  painting.  Addressing 
myself  then  to  those  humbler,  but  wiser,  or  rather,  onfy  wise 
students  who  are  content  to  avail  themselves  of  some  system 
of  building  already  understood,  let  us  consider  together  what 
room  for  the  exercise  of  the  imagination  may  be  left  to  us 
under  such  conditions.  And,  first,  I suppose  it  will  be  said, 
or  thought,  that  the  architect’s  principal  field  for  exercise  of 
his  invention  must  be  in  the  disposition  of  lines,  mouldings, 
and  masses,  in  agreeable  proportions.  Indeed,  if  you  adopt 
some  styles  of  architecture,  you  cannot  exercise  invention  in 
any  other  way.  And  I admit  that  it  requires  genius  and 
special  gift  to  do  this  rightly.  Not  by  rule,  nor  by  study,  can 
the  gift  of  graceful  proportionate  design  be  obtained  ; only 
by  the  intuition  of  genius  can  so  much  as  a single  tier  of 
facade  be  beautifully  arranged  ; and  the  man  has  just  cause 
for  pride,  as  far  as  our  gifts  can  ever  be  a cause  for  pride, 
who  finds  himself  able,  in  a design  of  his  own,  to  rival  even 
the  simplest  arrangement  of  parts  in  one  by  Sanmicheli, 
Inigo  Jones,  or  Christopher  Wren. 

Invention,  then,  and  genius  being  granted,  as  necessary  to 
accomplish  this,  let  me  ask  you,  What,  after  all,  with  this 
special  gift  and  genius,  you  have  accomplished,  when  you  have 
arranged  the  lines  of  a building  beautifully  ? 

In  the  first  place  you  will  not,  I think,  tell  me  that  the 
beauty  there  attained  is  of  a touching  or  pathetic  kind.  A 
well-disposed  group  of  notes  in  music  will  make  you  some- 


82 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


times  weep  and  sometimes  laugh.  You  can  express  the  depth 
of  all  affections  by  those  dispositions  of  sound  : you  can  give 
courage  to  the  soldier,  language  to  the  lover,  consolation  to 
the  mourner,  more  joy  to  the  joyful,  more  humility  to  the 
devout  Can  you  do  as  much  by  your  group  of  lines  ? Do 
you  suppose  the  front  of  Whitehall,  a singularly  beautiful  one, 
ever  inspires  the  two  Horse  Guards,  during  the  hour  they  sit 
opposite  to  it,  with  military  ardour  ? Do  you  think  that  the 
lovers  in  our  London  walk  down  to  the  front  of  Whitehall  for 
consolation  when  mistresses  are  unkind  ; or  that  any  person 
wavering  in  duty,  or  feeble  in  faith,  was  ever  confirmed  in 
purpose  or  in  creed  by  the  pathetic  appeal  of  those  har- 
monious architraves  ? You  will  not  say  so.  Then,  if  they 
cannot  touch,  or  inspire,  or  comfort  any  one,  can  your  archi- 
tectural proportions  amuse  any  one  ? Christmas  is  just  over  ; 
you  have  doubtless  been  at  many  merry  parties  during  the 
period.  Can  you  remember  any  in  which  architectural  pro- 
portions contributed  to  the  entertainment  of  the  evening? 
Proportions  of  notes  in  music  were,  I am  sure,  essential  to 
your  amusement ; the  setting  of  flowers  in  hair,  and  of  ribands 
on  dresses,  were  also  subjects  of  frequent  admiration  with 
you,  not  inessential  to  your  happiness.  Among  the  juvenile 
members  of  your  society  the  proportion  of  currants  in  cake, 
and  of  sugar  in  comfits,  became  subjects  of  acute  interest; 
and,  when  such  proportions  were  harmonious,  motives  also  of 
gratitude  to  cook  and  to  confectioner.  But  did  you  ever  see 
either  young  or  old  amused  by  the  architrave  of  the  door  ? 
Or  otherwise  interested  in  the  proportions  of  the  room  than 
as  they  admitted  more  or  fewer  friendly  faces  ? Nay,  if  all 
the  amusement  that  there  is  in  the  best  proportioned  architect- 
ure of  London  could  be  concentrated  into  one  evening,  and 
you  were  to  issue  tickets  for  nothing  to  this  great  propor- 
tional entertainment ; — how  do  you  think  it  would  stand  be- 
tween you  and  the  Drury  pantomine  ? 

You  are,  then,  remember,  granted  to  be  people  of  genius — 
great  and  admirable  ; and  you  devote  your  lives  to  your  art, 
but  you  admit  that  you  cannot  comfort  anybody,  you  cannot 
encourage  anybody,  you  cannot  improve  anybody,  and  you 


IMAGINATION  IN  ARCHITECTURE. 


83 


cannot  amuse  anybody.  I proceed  then  farther  to  ask,  Can 
you  inform  anybody  ? Many  sciences  cannot  be  considered 
as  highly  touching  or  emotional ; nay,  perhaps  not  specially 
amusing;  scientific  men  may  sometimes,  in  these  respects, 
stand  on  the  same  ground  with  you.  As  far  as  we  can  judge 
by  the  results  of  the  late  war,  science  helps  our  soldiers  about 
as  much  as  the  front  of  Whitehall ; and  at  the  Christmas  par- 
ties, the  children  wanted  no  geologists  to  tell  them  about  the 
behaviour  of  bears  and  dragons  in  Queen  Elizabeth’s  time. 
Still,  your  man  of  science  teaches  you  something ; he  may  be 
dull  at  a party,  or  helpless  in  a battle,  he  is  not  always  that ; 
but  he  can  give  you,  at  all  events,  knowledge  of  noble  facts, 
and  open  to  you  the  secrets  of  the  earth  and  air.  Will  your 
architectural  proportions  do  as  much  ? Your  genius  is  granted, 
and  your  life  is  given,  and  what  do  you  teach  us  ? — Nothing, 
I believe,  from  one  end  of  that  life  to  the  other,  but  that  two 
and  two  make  four,  and  that  one  is  to  two  as  three  is  to  six. 

You  cannot,  then,  it  is  admitted,  comfort  any  one,  serve  or 
amuse  any  one,  nor  teach  any  one.  Finally,  I ask.  Can  you  be  of 
Use  to  anyone?  “Yes, ’’you  reply ; “certainly  we  are  of  some  use 
— we  architects — in  a climate  like  this,  where  it  always  rains.’* 
You  are  of  use  certainly  ; but,  pardon  me,  only  as  builders — 
not  as  proportionalists.  We  are  not  talking  of  building  as  a 
protection,  but  only  of  that  special  work  which  your  genius  is 
to  do  ; not  of  building  substantial  and  comfortable  houses 
like  Mr.  Cubitt,  but  of  putting  beautiful  fayades  on  them  like 
Inigo  Jones.  And,  again,  I ask — Are  you  of  use  to  any  one  ? 
Will  your  proportions  of  the  fa9ade  heal  the  sick,  or  clothe 
the  naked?  Supposing  you  devoted  your  lives  to  be  mer- 
chants, you  might  reflect  at  the  close  of  them,  how  many, 
fainting  for  want,  you  had  brought  corn  to  sustain ; how  many, 
infected  with  disease,  you  had  brought  balms  to  heal ; how 
widely,  among  multitudes  of  far-away  nations,  you  had  scat- 
tered the  first  seeds  of  national  power,  and  guided  the  first 
rays  of  sacred  light.  Had  you  been,  in  fine,  anything  else  in 
the  World  hut  architectural  designers,  you  might  have  been  of 
some  use  or  good  to  people.  Content  to  be  petty  tradesmen, 
you  would  have  saved  the  time  of  mankind  ; — rough-handed 


84: 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


daily  labourers,  you  would  have  added  to  their  stock  of  food 
or  of  clothing.  But,  being  men  of  genius,  and  devoting  youf 
lives  to  the  exquisite  exposition  of  this  genius,  on  what  achieve- 
ments do  you  think  the  memories  of  your  old  age  are  to  fasten  ? 
Whose  gratitude  will  surround  you  with  its  glow,  or  on  what 
accomplished  good,  of  that  greatest  kind  for  which  men  show 
no  gratitude,  will  your  life  rest  the  contentment  of  its  close  ? 
Truly,  I fear  that  the  ghosts  of  proportionate  lines  will  be  thin 
phantoms  at  your  bedsides — very  speechless  to  you  ; and 
that  on  all  the  emanations  of  your  high  genius  you  will  look 
back  with  less  delight  than  you  might  have  done  on  a cup  of 
cold  water  given  to  him  who  was  thirsty,  or  to  a single  mo- 
ment when  you  had  “prevented  with  your  bread  him  that 
fled.” 

Do  not  answer,  nor  think  to  answer,  that  with  your  great 
works  and  great  payments  of  workmen  in  them,  you  would 
do  this  ; I know  you  would,  and  will,  as  Builders  ; but,  I re- 
peat, it  is  not  your  building  that  I am  talking  about,  but  your 
brains  ; it  is  your  invention  and  imagination  of  whose  profit  I 
am  speaking.  The  good  done  through  the  building,  observe, 
is  done  by  your  employers,  not  by  you — you  share  in  the 
benefit  of  it.  The  good  that  you  personally  must  do  is  by  your 
designing  ; and  I compare  you  with  musicians  who  do  good 
by  their  pathetic  composing,  not  as  they  do  good  by  employ- 
ing fiddlers  in  the  orchestra  ; for  it  is  the  public  who  in  reality 
do  that,  not  the  musicians.  So  clearly  keeping  to  this  one 
question,  what  good  we  architects  are  to  do  by  our  genius  ; 
and  having  found  that  on  our  proportionate  system  we  can 
do  no  good  to  others,  will  you  tell  me,  lastly,  what  good  we 
can  do  to  ourselves  ? 

Observe,  nearly  every  other  liberal  art  or  profession  has 
some  intense  pleasure  connected  with  it,  irrespective  of  any 
good  to  others.  As  lawyers,  or  physicians,  or  clergymen,  you 
would  have  the  pleasure  of  investigation,  and  of  historical 
reading,  as  part  of  your  work  : as  men  of  science  you  would 
be  rejoicing  in  curiosity  perpetually  gratified  respecting  the 
laws  and  facts  of  nature  : as  artists  you  would  have  delight  in 
■watching  the  external  forms  of  nature  : as  day  labourers  or 


IMAGINATION  IN  ARCHITECTURE. 


85 


petty  tradesmen,  supposing  you  to  undertake  such  work  with  as 
much  intellect  as  you  are  going  to  devote  to  your  designing, 
you  would  find  continued  subjects  of  interest  in  the  manufac- 
ture or  the  agriculture  which  you  helped  to  improve  ; or  in 
the  problems  of  commerce  which  bore  on  your  business.  But 
your  architectural  designing  leads  you  into  no  pleasant  jour- 
neys, — into  no  seeing  of  lovely  things, — no  discerning  of  just 
laws, — no  warmths  of  compassion,  no  humilities  of  veneration, 
no  progressive  state  of  sight  or  soul.  Our  conclusion  is — 
must  be — that  you  will  not  amuse,  nor  inform,  nor  help  any- 
body  ; you  will  not  amuse,  nor  better,  nor  inform  yourselves  ; 
you  will  sink  into  a state  in  which  you  can  neither  show,  nor 
feel,  nor  see,  anything,  but  that  one  is  to  two  as  three  is  to 
six.  And  in  that  state  what  should  we  call  ourselves  ? Men  ? 
I think  not.  The  right  name  for  us  would  be — numerators 
and  denominators.  Vulgar  Fractions. 

Shall  we,  then,  abandon  this  theory  of  the  soul  of  architect- 
ure being  in  proportional  lines,  and  look  whether  we  can  find 
anything  better  to  exert  our  fancies  upon  ? 

May  we  not,  to  begin  with,  accept  this  great  principle — 
that,  as  our  bodies,  to  be  in  health,  must  be  generally  exer- 
cised, so  our  minds,  to  be  in  health,  must  be  generally  culti- 
vated ? You  would  not  call  a man  healthy  who  had  strong 
arms  but  was  paralytic  in  his  feet ; nor  one  who  could  walk 
well,  but  had  no  use  of  his  hands ; nor  one  who  could  see 
well,  if  he  could  not  hear.  You  would  not  voluntarily  reduce 
your  bodies  to  any  such  partially  developed  state.  Much 
more,  then,  you  would  not,  if  you  could  help  it,  reduce  your 
minds  to  it.  Now,  your  minds  are  endowed  with  a vast  num- 
ber of  gifts  of  totally  different  uses — limbs  of  mind  as  it  were, 
which,  if  you  don’t  exercise,  you  cripple.  One  is  curiosity ; 
that  is  a gift,  a capacity  of  pleasure  in  knowing  ; which  if  you 
destroy,  you  make  yourselves  cold  and  dull.  Another  is  sym- 
pathy  ; the  power  of  sharing  in  the  feelings  of  living  creatures, 
which  if  you  destroy,  you  make  yourselves  hard  and  cruel. 
Another  of  your  limbs  of  mind  is  admiration  ; the  power  of 
enj°y^nS  beauty  or  ingenuity,  which,  if  you  destroy,  you  make 
yourselves  base  and  irreverent.  Another  is  wit ; or  the  power 


86 


TEE  TWO  PATES. 


of  playing  with  the  lights  on  the  many  sides  of  truth  ; which 
if  you  destroy,  you  make  yourselves  gloomy,  and  less  useful 
and  cheering  to  others  than  you  might  be.  So  that  in  choos- 
ing your  way  of  work  it  should  be  your  aim,  as  far  as  possible, 
to  bring  out  all  these  faculties,  as  far  as  they  exist  in  you  ; not 
one  merely,  nor  another,  but  all  of  them.  And  the  way  to 
bring  them  out,  is  simply  to  concern  yourselves  attentively 
with  the  subjects  of  each  faculty.  To  cultivate  sympathy  you 
must  be  among  living  creatures,  and  thinking  about  them  ; 
and  to  cultivate  admiration,  you  must  be  among  beautiful 
things  and  looking  at  them. 

All  this  sounds  much  like  truism,  at  least  I hope  it  does,  for 
then  you  will  surely  not  refuse  to  act  upon  it ; and  to  con- 
sider farther,  how,  as  architects,  you  are  to  keep  yourselves 
in  contemplation  of  living  creatures  and  lovely  things. 

You  all  probably  know  the  beautiful  photographs  which 
have  been  published  within  the  last  year  or  two  of  the  porches 
of  the  Cathedral  of  Amiens.  I hold  one  of  these  up  to  you, 
(merely  that  you  may  know  what  I am  talking  about,  as  of 
course  you  cannot  see  the  detail  at  this  distance,  but  you  will 
recognise  the  subject.)  Have  you  ever  considered  how  much 
sympathy,  and  how  much  humour,  are  developed  in  filling 
this  single  doorway  * with  these  sculptures  of  the  history  of 
St.  Honore  (and,  by  the  way,  considering  how  often  we  Eng- 
lish are  now  driving  up  and  down  the  Rue  St.  Honore,  we 
may  as  well  know  as  much  of  the  saint  as  the  old  architect 
cared  to  tell  us).  You  know  in  all  legends  of  saints  who  ever 
were  bishops,  the  first  thing  you  are  told  of  them  is  that  they 
didn’t  want  to  be  bishops.  So  here  is  St.  Honore,  who  doesn’t 
want  to  be  a bishop,  sitting  sulkily  in  the  corner  ; he  hugs 
his  book  with  both  hands,  and  won’t  get  up  to  take  his  cro- 
sier ; and  here  are  all  the  city  aldermen  of  Amiens  come  to 
poke  him  up  ; and  all  the  monks  in  the  town  in  a great  puzzle 
what  they  shall  do  for  a bishop  if  St.  Honore  won’t  be  ; and 
here’s  one  of  the  monks  in  the  opposite  corner  who  is  quite 
cool  about  it,  and  thinks  they’ll  get  on  well  enough  without 

* The  tympanum  of  the  south  transept  door  ; it  is  to  he  found  gener- 
ally among  all  collections  of  architectural  photographs. 


IMAGINATION  IN  ARCHITECTURE. 


87 


St.  Honore, — you  see  that  in  his  face  perfectly.  At  last  St. 
HonoiA  consents  to  be  bishop,  and  here  he  sits  in  a throne, 
and  has  his  book  now  grandly  on  his  desk  instead  of  his 
knees,  and  he  directs  one  of  his  village  curates  how  to  find 
relics  in  a wood  ; here  is  the  wood,  and  here  is  the  village 
curate,  and  here  are  the  tombs,  with  the  bones  of  St.  Victo- 
rien  and  Gentien  in  them. 

After  this,  St.  Honore  performs  grand  mass,  and  the  mira- 
cle occurs  of  the  appearance  of  a hand  blessing  the  wafer, 
which  occurrence  afterwards  was  painted  for  the  arms  of  the 
abbey.  Then  St.  Honore  dies  ; and  here  is  his  tomb  with 
his  statue  on  the  top  ; and  miracles  are  being  performed  at  it 
— a deaf  man  having  his  ear  touched,  and  a blind  man  grop- 
ing his  way  up  to  the  tomb  with  his  dog.  Then  here  is  a 
great  procession  in  honour  of  the  relics  of  St.  Honore  ; and 
under  his  coffin  are  some  cripples  being  healed  ; and  the 
coffin  itself  is  put  above  the  bar  which  separates  the  cross 
from  the  lower  subjects,  because  the  tradition  is  that  the 
figure  on  the  crucifix  of  the  Church  of  St.  Firmin  bowed  its 
head  in  token  of  acceptance,  as  the  relics  of  St.  Honore  passed 
beneath. 

Now  just  consider  the  amount  of  sympathy  with  human 
nature,  and  observance  of  it,  shown  in  this  one  bas-relief ; the 
sympathy  with  disputing  monks,  with  puzzled  aldermen, 
with  melancholy  recluse,  with  triumphant  prelate,  with  palsy- 
stricken  poverty,  with  ecclesiastical  magnificence,  or  miracle- 
working  faith.  Consider  how  much  intellect  was  needed  in 
the  architect,  and  how  much  observance  of  nature  before  he 
could  give  the  expression  to  these  various  figures — cast  these 
multitudinous  draperies — design  these  rich  and  quaint  frag- 
ments of  tombs  and  altars — weave  with  perfect  animation  the 
entangled  branches  of  the  forest. 

But  you  will  answer  me,  all  this  is  not  architecture  at  all — 
it  is  sculpture.  Will  you  then  tell  me  precisely  where  the 
the  separation  exists  between  one  and  the  other  ? We  will 
begin  at  the  very  beginning.  I will  show  you  a piece  of  what 
you  will  certainly  admit  to  be  a piece  of  pure  architecture  ; * 

* See  Appendix  III.,  “ Classical  Architecture.” 


88 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


it  is  drawn  on  the  back  of  another  photograph,  another  of 
these  marvellous  tympana  from  Notre  Dame,  which  you  call, 
I suppose,  impure.  Well,  look  on  this  picture,  and  on  this. 
Don’t  laugh  ; you  must  not  laugh,  that’s  very  improper  ol 
you,  this  is  classical  architecture.  I have  taken  it  out  of  the 
essay  on  that  subject  in  the  “ Encyclopaedia  Britannica.” 

Yet  I suppose  none  of  you  would  think  yourselves  particu- 
larly ingenious  architects  if  you  had  designed  nothing  more 
than  this ; nay,  I will  even  let  you  improve  it  into  any  grand 
proportion  you  choose,  and  add  to  it  as  many  windows  as  you 
choose  ; the  only  thing  I insist  upon  in  our  specimen  of  pure 
architecture  is,  that  there  shall  be  no  mouldings  nor  orna- 
ments upon  it.  And  I suspect  you  don’t  quite  like  your  ar- 
chitecture so  “pure”  as  this.  We  want  a few  mouldings, 
you  will  say — just  a few.  Those  who  want  mouldings,  hold 
up  their  hands.  We  are  unanimous,  I think.  Will,  you, 
then,  design  the  profiles  of  these  mouldings  yourselves,  or 
will  you  copy  them  ? If  you  wish  to  copy  them,  and  to  copy 
them  always,  of  course  I leave  you  at  once  to  your  authorities, 
and  your  imaginations  to  their  repose.  But  if  you  wish  to 
design  them  yourselves,  how  do  you  do  it  ? You  draw  the 
profile  according  to  your  taste,  and  you  order  your  mason  to 
cut  it.  Now,  will  you  tell  me  the  logical  difference  between 
drawing  the  profile  of  a moulding  and  giving  that  to  be  cut, 
and  drawing  the  folds  of  the  drapery  of  a statue  and  giving 
those  to  be  cut.  The  last  is  much  more  difficult  to  do  than 
the  first ; but  degrees  of  difficulty  constitute  no  specific  differ- 
ence, and  you  will  not  accept  it,  surely,  as  a definition  of  the 
difference  between  architecture  and  sculpture,  that  “ archi- 
tecture is  doing  anything  that  is  easv,  and  sculpture  anything 
that  is  difficult.” 

It  is  true,  also,  that  the  carved  moulding  represents  nothing, 
and  the  carved  drapery  represents  something ; but  you  will 
not,  I should  think,  accept,  as  an  explanation  of  the  difference 
between  architecture  and  sculpture,  this  any  more  than  the 
other,  that  “ sculpture  is  art  which  has  meaning,  and  archi- 
tecture art  which  has  none.” 

Where,  then,  is  your  difference  ? In  this,  perhaps,  you  wifi 


IMAGINATION  IN  ARCHITECTURE.  89 

say  ; that  whatever  ornaments  we  can  direct  ourselves,  and 
get  accurately  cut  to  order,  we  consider  architectural.  The 
ornaments  that  we  are  obliged  to  leave  to  the  pleasure  of  the 
workman,  or  the  superintendence  of  some  other  designer,  we 
consider  sculptural,  especially  if  they  are  more  or  less  ex- 
traneous and  incrusted— not  an  essential  part  of  the  build- 
ing. 

Accepting  this  definition,  I am  compelled  to  reply,  that  it 
is  in  effect  nothing  more  than  an  amplification  of  my  first  one 

that  whatever  is  easy  you  call  architecture,  whatever  is  diffi- 
cult you  call  sculpture.  For  you  cannot  suppose  the  arrange- 
ment of  the  place  in  which  the  sculpture  is  to  be  put  is  so  diffi- 
cult or  so  great  a part  of  the  design  as  the  sculpture  itself. 
For  instance  : you  all  know  the  pulpit  of  Niccolo  Pisano,  in 
the  baptistry  at  Pisa.  It  is  composed  of  seven  rich  relievi , 
surrounded  by  panel  mouldings,  and  sustained  on  marble 
shafts.  Do  you  suppose  Niccolo  Pisano’s  reputation — such  part 
of  it  at  least  as  rests  on  this  pulpit  (and  much  does) — depends 
on  the  panel  mouldings,  or  on  the  relievi  ? The  panel  mould- 
ings are  by  his  hand  ; he  would  have  disdained  to  leave  even 
them  to  a common  workman  ; but  do  you  think  he  found  any 
difficulty  in  them,  or  thought  there  was  any  credit  in  them  ? 
Having  once  done  the  sculpture,  those  enclosing  lines  were 
mere  child’s  play  to  him ; the  determination  of  the  diameter 
of  shafts  and  height  of  capitals  was  an  affair  of  minutes  ; his 
work  was  in  carving  the  Crucifixion  and  the  Baptism. 

Or,  again,  do  you  recollect  Orcagna’s  tabernacle  in  the 
chuich  of  San  Michele,  at  Florence  ? That,  also,  consists  of 
rich  and  multitudinous  bas-reliefs,  enclosed  in  panel  mould- 
ings, with  shafts  of  mosaic,  and  foliated  arches  sustaining  the 
canopy.  Do  you  think  Orcagna,  any  more  than  Pisano,  if  his 
spirit  could  rise  in  the  midst  of  us  at  this  moment,  would  tell 
us  that  he  had  trusted  his  fame  to  the  foliation,  or  had  put 
his  soul’s  pride  into  the  panelling  ? Not  so  ; he  would  tell  you 
that  his  spirit  was  in  the  stooping  figures  that  stand  round  the 
couch  of  the  dying  Virgin. 

# Or,  lastly,  do  you  think  the  man  who  designed  the  proces- 
sion on  the  portal  of  Amiens  was  the  subordinate  workman? 


90 


TEE  TWO  PATES, 


that  there  was  an  architect  over  him,  restraining  him  within 
certain  limits,  and  ordering  of  him  his  bishops  at  so  much  a 
mitre,  and  his  cripples  at  so  much  a crutch  ? Not  so.  Here , 
on  this  sculptured  shield,  rests  the  Master’s  hand  ; this  is  the 
centre  of  the  Master’s  thought ; from  this,  and  in  subordina- 
tion to  this,  waved  the  arch  and  sprang  the  pinnacle.  Hav- 
ing done  this,  and  being  able  to  give  human  expression  and 
action  to  the  stone,  all  the  rest — the  rib,  the  niche,  the  foil, 
the  shaft — were  mere  toys  to  his  hand  and  accessories  to  his 
conception  : and  if  once  you  also  gain  the  gift  of  doing  this, 
if  once  you  can  carve  one  fronton  such  as  you  have  here,  I tell 
you,  you  would  be  able — so  far  as  it  depended  on  your  inven- 
tion— to  scatter  cathedrals  over  England  as  fast  as  clouds  rise 
from  its  streams  after  summer  rain. 

Nay,  but  perhaps  you  answer  again,  our  sculptors  at  present 
do  not  design  cathedrals,  and  could  not.  No,  they  could  not ; 
but  that  is  merely  because  we  have  made  architecture  so  dull 
that  they  cannot  take  any  interest  in  it,  and,  therefore,  do 
not  care  to  add  to  their  higher  knowledge  the  poor  and  com- 
mon knowledge  of  principles  of  building.  You  have  thus 
separated  building  from  sculpture,  and  you  have  taken  away 
the  power  of  both  ; for  the  sculptor  loses  nearly  as  much  by 
never  having  room  for  the  development  of  a continuous  work, 
as  you  do  from  having  reduced  your  work  to  a continuity  of 
mechanism.  You  are  essentially,  and  should  always  be,  the 
same  body  of  men,  admitting  only  such  difference  in  operation 
as  there  is  between  the  work  of  a painter  at  different  times, 
who  sometimes  labours  on  a small  picture,  and  sometimes  on 
the  frescoes  of  a palace  gallery. 

This  conclusion,  then,  we  arrive  at,  must  arrive  at ; the  fact 
being  irrevocably  so  : — that  in  order  to  give  your  imagination 
and  the  other  powers  of  your  souls  full  play,  you  must  do  as 
all  the  great  architects  of  old  time  did — you  must  yourselves 
be  your  sculptors.  Phidias,  Michael  Angelo,  Orcagna,  Pisano, 
Giotto, — which  of  these  men,  do  you  think,  could  not  use  his 
chisel?  You  say,  “It  is  difficult ; quite  out  of  your  way.”  I 
know  it  is ; nothing  that  is  great  is  easy ; and  nothing  that 
is  great,  so  long  as  you  study  building  without  sculpture,  can 


IMAGINATION  IN  ARCHITECTURE. 


91 


be  in  your  way.  I want  to  put  it  in  your  way,  and  you  to  find 
your  way  to  it.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  do  not  shrink  from 
the  task  as  if  the  refined  art  of  perfect  sculpture  were  always 
required  from  you.  For,  though  architecture  and  sculpture 
are  not  separate  arts,  there  is  an  architectural  manner  of  sculp- 
ture ; and  it  is,  in  the  majority  of  its  applications,  a compar- 
atively easy  one.  Our  great  mistake  at  present,  in  dealing 
with  stone  at  all,  is  requiring  to  have  all  our  work  too  refined  ; 
it  is  just  the  same  mistake  as  if  we  were  to  require  all  our 
book  illustrations  to  be  as  fine  work  as  Raphael’s.  John  Leech 
does  not  sketch  so  well  as  Leonardo  da  Vinci ; but  do  you 
think  that  the  public  could  easily  spare  him;  or  that  he  is  wrong 
in  bringing  out  his  talent  in  the  way  in  which  it  is  most  effect- 
ive ? Would  you  advise  him,  if  he  asked  your  advice,  to  give 
up  his  wood-blocks  and  take  to  canvas  ? I know  you  would 
not ; neither  would  you  tell  him,  I believe,  on  the  other  hand, 
that  because  he  could  not  draw  as  well  as  Leonardo,  therefore 
he  ought  to  draw  nothing  but  straight  lines  with  a ruler,  and 
circles  with  compasses,  and  no  figure-subjects  at  all.  That 
would  be  some  loss  to  you  ; would  it  not  ? You  would  all  be 
vexed  if  next  week’s  Punch  had  nothing  in  it  but  proportion- 
ate lines.  And  yet,  do  not  you  see  that  you  are  doing  pre- 
cisely the  same  thing  with  your  powers  of  sculptural  design 
that  he  would  be  doing  with  his  powers  of  pictorial  design, 
if  he  gave  you  nothing  but  such  lines.  You  feel  that  you 
cannot  carve  like  Phidias ; therefore  you  will  not  carve  at  all, 
but  only  draw  mouldings  ; and  thus  all  that  intermediate 
power  which  is  of  especial  value  in  modern  days, — that  popu- 
lar power  of  expression  which  is  within  the  attainment  of 
thousands, — and  would  address  itself  to  tens  of  thousands, 
— is  utterly  lost  to  us  in  stone,  though  in  ink  and  paper  it 
has  become  one  of  the  most  desired  luxuries  of  modern  civili- 
zation. 

Here,  then,  is  one  part  of  the  subject  to  which  I would  espe- 
cially invite  your  attention,  namely,  the  distinctive  character 
which  may  be  wisely  permitted  to  belong  to  architectural 
sculpture,  as  distinguished  from  perfect  sculpture  on  one  side, 
and  from  mere  geometrical  decoration  on  the  other. 


92 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


And  first,  observe  what  an  indulgence  we  have  in  the  dis. 
tance  at  which  most  work  is  to  be  seen.  Supposing  we  were 
able  to  carve  eyes  and  lips  with  the  most  exquisite  precision, 
it  would  all  be  of  no  use  as  soon  as  the  work  was  put  far  above 
the  eye  ; but,  on  the  other  hand,  as  beauties  disappear  by  be- 
ing far  withdrawn,  so  will  faults ; and  the  mystery  and  con- 
fusion which  are  the  natural  consequence  of  distance,  while 
they  would  often  render  your  best  skill  but  vain,  will  as  often 
render  your  worst  errors  of  little  consequence  ; nay,  more  than 
this,  often  a deep  cut,  or  a rude  angle,  will  produce  in  certain 
positions  an  effect  of  expression  both  startling  and  true, which 
you  never  hoped  for.  Not  that  mere  distance  will  give  ani- 
mation to  the  work,  if  it  has  none  in  itself ; but  if  it  has  life 
at  all,  the  distance  will  make  that  life  more  perceptible  and 
powerful  by  softening  the  defects  of  execution.  So  that  you 
are  placed,  as  workmen,  in  this  position  of  singular  advantage, 
that  you  may  give  your  fancies  free  play,  and  strike  hard  for 
the  expression  that  you  want,  knowing  that,  if  you  miss  it, 
no  one  will  detect  you ; if  you  at  all  touch  it,  nature  herself 
will  help  you,  and  with  every  changing  shadow  and  basking 
sunbeam  bring  forth  new  phases  of  your  fancy. 

But  it  is  not  merely  this  privilege  of  being  imperfect  which 
belongs  to  architectural  sculpture.  It  has  a true  privilege  of 
imagination,  far  excelling  all  that  can  be  granted  to  the  more 
finished  work,  which,  for  the  sake  of  distinction,  I will  call, — 
and  I don’t  think  we  can  have  a much  better  term — “ furniture 
sculpture  ; ” sculpture,  that  is,  which  can  be  moved  from  place 
to  furnish  rooms. 

For  observe,  to  that  sculpture  the  spectator  is  usually 
brought  in  a tranquil  or  prosaic  state  of  mind  ; he  sees  it  as- 
sociated rather  with  what  is  sumptuous  than  sublime,  and 
under  circumstances  which  address  themselves  more  to  his 
comfort  than  his  curiosity.  The  statue  which  is  to  be  pa- 
thetic, seen  between  the  flashes  of  footmen’s  livery  round 
the  dining-table,  must  have  strong  elements  of  pathos  in 
itself ; and  the  statue  which  is  to  be  awful,  in  the  midst  of 
the  gossip  of  the  drawing-room,  must  have  the  elements  of 
awe  wholly  in  itself.  But  the  spectator  is  brought  to  your 


IMAGINATION  IN  ARCHITECTURE. 


93 


work  already  in  an  excited  and  imaginative  mood.  He  has 
been  impressed  by  the  cathedral  wall  as  it  loomed  over  the 
low  streets,  before  he  looks  up  to  the  carving  of  its  porch 
—and  his  love  of  mystery  has  been  touched  by  the  silence 
and  the  shadows  of  the  cloister,  before  he  can  set  himself 
to  decipher  the  bosses  on  its  vaulting.  So  that  when  once 
he  begins  to  observe  your  doings,  he  will  ask  nothing  better 
from  you,  nothing  kinder  from  you,  than  that  you  would 
meet  this  imaginative  temper  of  his  half  way that  you 
would  farther  touch  the  sense  of  terror,  or  satisfy  the  expecta- 
tion of  things  strange,  which  have  been  prompted  by  the 
mystery  or  the  majesty  of  the  surrounding  scene.  And 
thus,  your  leaving  forms  more  or  less  undefined,  or  carrying 
out  your  fancies,  however  extravagant,  in  grotesqueness  of 
shadow  or  shape,  will  be  for  the  most  part  in  accordance 
with  the  temper  of  the  observer ; and  he  is  likely,  therefore, 
much  more  willingly  to  use  his  fancy  to  help  your  meanings, 
than  his  judgment  to  detect  your  faults. 

Again.  Remember  that  when  the  imagination  and  feelings 
are  strongly  excited,  they  will  not  only  bear  with  strange 
things,  but  they  will  look  into  minute  things  with  a delight 
quite  unknown  in  hours  of  tranquillity.  You  surely  must 
remember  moments  of  your  lives  in  which,  under  some 
strong  excitement  of  feeling,  all  the  details  of  visible  objects 
presented  themselves  with  a strange  intensity  and  insistance, 
whether  you  would  or  no  ; urging  themselves  upon  the  mind, 
and  thrust  upon  the  eye,  with  a force  of  fascination  which  you 
could  not  refuse.  Now,  to  a certain  extent,  the  senses  get 
into  this  state  whenever  the  imagination  is  strongly  excited. 
Things  trivial  at  other  times  assume  a dignity  or  significance 
which  we  cannot  explain  ; but  which  is  only  the  more  attrac- 
tive because  inexplicable : and  the  powers  of  attention,  quick- 
ened by  the  feverish  excitement,  fasten  and  feed  upon  the 
minutest  circumstances  of  detail,  and  remotest  traces  of 
intention.  So  that  what  would,  at  other  times  be  felt  as  more 
or  less  mean  or  extraneous  in  a work  of  sculpture,  and  which 
would  assuredly  be  offensive  to  the  perfect  taste  in  its  moments 
of  languor,  or  of  critical  judgment,  will  be  grateful,  and  even 


n 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


sublime,  when  it  meets  this  frightened  inquisitiveness,  this  fas- 
cinated watchfulness,  of  the  roused  imagination.  And  this  is 
all  for  your  advantage  ; for,  in  the  beginnings  of  your  sculp- 
ture, you  will  assuredly  find  it  easier  to  imitate  minute  cir- 
cumstances of  costume  or  character,  than  to  perfect  the  anat- 
omy of  simple  forms  or  the  flow  of  noble  masses  ; and  it  will 
be  encouraging  to  remember  that  the  grace  you  cannot  per- 
fect, and  the  simplicity  you  cannot  achieve,  would  be  in  great 
part  vain,  even  if  you  could  achieve  them,  in  their  appeal  to 
the  hasty  curiosity  of  passionate  fancy ; but  that  the  sympathy 
which  would  be  refused  to  your  science  will  be  granted  to 
your  innocence : and  that  the  mind  of  the  general  observer, 
though  wholly  unaffected  by  the  correctness  of  anatomy  or 
propriety  of  gesture,  will  follow  you  with  fond  and  pleased 
concurrence,  as  you  carve  the  knots  of  the  hair,  and  the  pat- 
terns of  the  vesture. 

Farther  yet.  We  are  to  remember  that  not  only  do  the 
associated  features  of  the  larger  architecture  tend  to  excite 
the  strength  of  fancy,  but  the  architectural  laws  to  which  you 
are  obliged  to  submit  your  decoration  stimulate  its  ingenuity. 
Every  crocket  which  you  are  to  crest  with  sculpture, — every 
foliation  which  you  have  to  fill,  presents  itself  to  the  specta- 
tor’s fancy,  not  only  as  a pretty  thing,  but  as  a problematic 
thing.  It  contained,  he  perceives  immediately,  not  only  a 
beauty  which  you  wished  to  display,  but  a necessity  which 
you  were  forced  to  meet ; and  the  problem,  how  to  occupy 
such  and  such  a space  with  organic  form  in  any  probable 
way,  or  how  to  turn  such  a boss  or  ridge  into  a conceivable 
image  of  life,  becomes  at  once,  to  him  as  to  you,  a matter  of 
amusement  as  much  as  of  admiration.  The  ordinary  condi- 
tions of  perfection  in  form,  gesture,  or  feature,  are  willingly 
dispensed  with,  when  the  ugly  dwarf  and  ungainly  goblin 
have  only  to  gather  themselves  into  angles,  or  crouch  to  carry 
corbels  ; and  the  want  of  skill  which,  in  other  kinds  of  work, 
would  have  been  required  for  the  finishing  of  the  parts,  will 
at  once  be  forgiven  here,  if  you  have  only  disposed  in- 
geniously what  you  have  executed  roughly,  and  atoned  for 
the  rudeness  of  your  hands  by  the  quickness  of  your  wits. 


IMAGINATION  IN  ARCHITECTURE. 


95 


Hitherto,  however,  we  have  been  considering  only  the  cir- 
cumstances in  architecture  favourable  to  the  development  of 
the  powers  of  imagination.  A yet  more  important  point  for 
us  seems,  to  me,  the  place  which  it  gives  to  all  the  objects  of 
imagination. 

For,  I suppose,  you  will  not  wish  me  to  spend  any  time  in 
proving,  that  imagination  must  be  vigorous  in  proportion  to 
the  quantity  of  material  which  it  has  to  handle ; and  that, 
just  as  we  increase  the  range  of  what  we  see,  we  increase  the 
richness  of  what  we  can  imagine.  Granting  this,  consider 
what  a field  is  opened  to  your  fancy  merely  in  the  subject 
matter  which  architecture  admits.  Nearly  every  other  art  is 
severely  limited  in  its  subjects — the  landscape  painter,  for  in- 
stance, gets  little  help  from  the  aspects  of  beautiful  humanity ; 
the  historical  painter,  less,  perhaps,  than  he  ought,  from  the 
accidents  of  wild  nature  ; and  the  pure  sculptor,  still  less,  from 
the  minor  details  of  common  life.  But  is  there  anything  within 
range  of  sight,  or  conception,  which  may  not  be  of  use  to 
you , or  in  which  your  interest  may  not  be  excited  with  ad- 
vantage to  your  art  ? From  visions  of  angels,  down  to  the 
least  important  gesture  of  a child  at  play,  whatever  may  be 
conceived  of  Divine,  or  beheld  of  Human,  may  be  dared  or 
adopted  by  you  : throughout  the  kingdom  of  animal  life,  no 
creature  is  so  vast,  or  so  minute,  that  you  cannot  deal  with  it, 
or  bring  it  into  service  ; the  lion  and  the  crocodile  will  couch 
about  your  shafts  ; the  moth  and  the  bee  will  sun  themselves 
upon  your  flowers  ; for  you,  the  fawn  will  leap  ; for  you,  the 
snail  be  slow  ; for  you,  the  dove  smooth  her  bosom  ; and  the 
hawk  spread  her  wings  toward  the  south.  All  the  wide 
world  of  vegetation  blooms  and  bends  for  you  ; the  leaves 
tremble  that  you  may  bid  them  be  still  under  the  marble 
snow  ; the  thorn  and  the  thistle,  which  the  earth  casts  forth 
as  evil,  are  to  you  the  kindliest  servants  ; no  dying  petal,  nor 
drooping  tendril,  is  so  feeble  as  to  have  no  more  help  for 
you  ; no  robed  pride  of  blossom  so  kingly,  but  it  will  lay 
aside  its  purple  to  receive  at  your  hands  the  pale  immortality. 
Is  there  anything  in  common  life  too  mean, — in  common 
things  too  trivial, — to  be  ennobled  by  your  touch  ? As  there 


96 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


is  nothing  in  life,  so  there  is  nothing  in  lifelessness  which 
has  not  its  lesson  for  you,  or  its  gift;  and  when  you  are 
tired  of  watching  the  strength  of  the  plume,  and  the  tender- 
ness of  the  leaf,  you  may  walk  down  to  your  rough  river 
shore,  or  into  the  thickest  markets  of  your  thoroughfares,  and 
there  is  not  a piece  of  tom  cable  that  will  not  twine  into  a 
perfect  moulding  ; there  is  not  a fragment  of  cast-away  mat- 
ting, or  shattered  basket-work,  that  will  not  work  into  a 
chequer  or  capital.  Yes : and  if  you  gather  up  the  very  sand, 
and  break  the  stone  on  which  you  tread,  among  its  fragments 
of  all  but  invisible  shells  you  will  find  forms  that  will  take 
their  place,  and  that  proudly,  among  the  starred  traceries  of 
your  vaulting  ; and  you,  who  can  crown  the  mountain  with  its 
fortress,  and  the  city  with  its  towers,  are  thus  able  also  to 
give  beauty  to  ashes,  and  worthiness  to  dust. 

Now,  in  that  your  art  presents  all  this  material  to  you,  you 
have  already  much  to  rejoice  in.  But  you  have  more  to  re- 
joice in,  because  all  this  is  submitted  to  you,  not  to  be  dis- 
sected or  analyzed,  but  to  be  sympathized  with,  and  to  bring 
out,  therefore,  what  may  be  accurately  called  the  moral  part 
of  imagination.  We  saw  that,  if  we  kept  ourselves  among 
lines  only,  we  should  have  cause  to  envy  the  naturalist,  be- 
cause he  was  conversant  with  facts ; but  you  will  have  little 
to  envy  now,  if  you  make  yourselves  conversant  with  the  feel- 
ings that  arise  out  of  his  facts.  For  instance,  the  naturalist 
coming  upon  a block  of  marble,  has  to  begin  considering  im- 
mediately how  far  its  purple  is  owing  to  iron,  or  its  whiteness 
to  magnesia ; he  breaks  his  piece  of  marble,  and  at  the  close 
of  his  day,  has  nothing  but  a little  sand  in  his  crucible  and 
some  data  added  to  the  theory  of  the  elements.  But  you  ap- 
proach your  marble  to  sympathize  with  it,  and  rejoice  over 
its  beauty.  You  cut  it  a little  indeed  ; but  only  to  bring  out 
its  veins  more  perfectly ; and  at  the  end  of  your  day’s  work 
you  leave  your  marble  shaft  with  joy  and  complacency  in  its 
perfectness,  as  marble.  When  you  have  to  watch  an  animal 
instead  of  a stone,  you  differ  from  the  naturalist  in  the  same 
way.  He  may,  perhaps,  if  he  be  an  amiable  naturalist,  take 
delight  in  having  living  creatures  round  him  ; — still,  the  ma- 


IMAGINATION  IN  ARCHITECTURE. 


97 


jor  part  of  liis  work  is,  or  has  been,  in  counting  feathers, 
separating  fibres,  and  analyzing  structures.  But  your  work 
is  always  with  the  living  creature  ; the  thing  you  have  to  gel 
at  in  him  is  his  life,  and  ways  of  going  about  things.  It  does 
not  matter  to  you  how  many  cells  there  are  in  his  bones,  or 
how  many  filaments  in  his  feathers ; what  you  want  is  his 
moral  character  and  way  of  behaving  himself  ; it  is  just  that 
which  your  imagination,  if  healthy,  will  first  seize — just  that 
which  your  chisel,  if  vigorous,  will  first  cut.  You  must  get 
the  storm  spirit  into  your  eagles,  and  the  lordliness  into  your 
lions,  and  the  tripping  fear  into  your  fawns ; and  in  order  to 
do  this,  you  must  be  in  continual  sympathy  with  every  fawn 
of  them ; and  be  hand-in-glove  with  all  the  lions,  and  hand- 
in-claw  with  all  the  hawks.  And  don’t  fancy  that  you  will 
lower  yourselves  by  sympathy  with  the  lower  creatures  ; you 
cannot  sympathize  rightly  with  the  higher,  unless  you  do 
with  those  : but  you  have  to  sympathize  with  the  higher,  too — 
with  queens,  and  kings,  and  martyrs,  and  angels.  Yes,  and 
above  all,  and  more  than  all,  with  simple  humanity  in  all  its 
needs  and  ways,  for  there  is  not  one  hurried  face  that  passes 
you  in  the  street  that  will  not  be  impressive,  if  you  can  only 
fathom  it.  All  history  is  open  to  you,  all  high  thoughts  and 
dreams  that  the  past  fortunes  of  men  can  suggest,  all  fairy 
land  is  open  to  you — no  vision  that  ever  haunted  forest,  or 
gleamed  over  hill-side,  but  calls  you  to  understand  how  it 
came  into  men’s  hearts,  and  may  still  touch  them  ; and  all 
Paradise  is  open  to  you— yes,  and  the  work  of  Paradise  ; for 
in  bringing  all  ihis,  in  perpetual  and  attractive  truth,  before 
the  eyes  of  your  fellow-men,  you  have  to  join  in  the  employ- 
ment of  the  angels,  as  well  as  to  imagine  their  companies. 

And  observe,  in  this  last  respect,  what  a peculiar  impor- 
tance, and  responsibility,  are  attached  to  your  work,  when 
you  consider  its  permanence,  and  the  multitudes  to  whom  it 
is  addressed.  We  frequently  are  led,  by  wise  people,  to  con- 
sider what  responsibility  may  sometimes  attach  to  words, 
which  yet,  the  chance  is,  will  be  heard  by  few,  and  forgotten 
as  soon  as  heard.  But  none  of  your  words  will  be  heard  by 
few,  and  none  will  be  forgotten,  for  five  or  six  hundred  years, 


98 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


if  you  build  well.  You  will  talk  to  all  who  pass  by  ; and  all 
those  little  sympathies,  those  freaks  of  fancy,  those  jests  in 
stone,  those  workings-out  of  problems  in  caprice,  will  occupy 
mind  after  mind  of  utterly  countless  multitudes,  long  after 
you  are  gone.  You  have  not,  like  authors,  to  plead  for  a 
hearing,  or  to  fear  oblivion.  Do  but  build  large  enough,  and 
carve  boldly  enough,  and  all  the  world  will  hear  you ; they 
cannot  choose  but  look. 

I do  not  mean  to  awe  you  by  this  thought ; I do  not  mean 
that  because  you  will  have  so  many  witnesses  and  watchers, 
you  are  never  to  jest,  or  do  anything  gaily  or  lightly ; on  the 
contrary,  I have  pleaded,  from  the  beginning,  for  this  art  of 
yours,  especially  because  it  has  room  for  the  whole  of  your 
character — if  jest  is  in  you,  let  the  jest  be  jested  ; if  math- 
ematical ingenuity  is  yours,  let  your  problem  be  put,  and 
your  solution  worked  out,  as  quaintly  as  you  choose ; above 
all,  see  that  your  work  is  easily  and  happily  done,  else  it  will 
never  make  anybody  else  happy  ; but  while  you  thus  give  the 
rein  to  all  your  impulses,  see  that  those  impulses  be  headed 
and  centred  by  one  noble  impulse  ; and  let  that  be  Love — 
triple  love — for  the  art  which  you  practise,  the  creation  in 
which  you  move,  and  the  creatures  to  whom  you  minister. 

I.  I say,  first,  Love  for  the  art  which  you  practise.  Be  as- 
sured that  if  ever  any  other  motive  becomes  a leading  one  in 
your  mind,  as  the  principal  one  for  exertion,  except  your  love 
of  art,  that  moment  it  is  all  over  with  your  art.  I do  not  say 
you  are  to  desire  money,  nor  to  desire  fame,  nor  to  desire 
position  ; you  cannot  but  desire  all  three ; nay,  you  may — if 
you  are  willing  that  I should  use  the  word  Love  in  a dese- 
crated sense — love  all  three  ; that  is,  passionately  covet  them, 
yet  you  must  not  covet  or  love  them  in  the  first  place.  Men 
of  strong  passions  and  imaginations  must  always  care  a great 
deal  for  anything  they  care  for  at  all ; but  the  whole  question 
is  one  of  first  or  second.  Does  your  art  lead  you,  or  your 
gain  lead  you  ? You  may  like  making  money  exceedingly  ; 
but  if  it  come  to  a fair  question,  whether  you  are  to  make 
five  hundred  pounds  less  by  this  business,  or  to  spoil  your 
building,  and  you  choose  to  spoil  your  building,  there’s  ed 


IMAGINATION  IN  ARCHITECTURE. 


99 


end  of  you.  So  you  may  be  as  thirsty  for  fame  as  a cricket 
is  for  cream  ; but,  if  it  come  to  a fair  question,  whether  you 
are  to  please  the  mob,  or  do  the  thing  as  you  know  it  ought 
to  be  done  ; and  you  can’t  do  both,  and  choose  to  please  the 
mob,  it’s  all  over  with  you — there’s  no  hope  for  you  ; nothing 
that  you  can  do  will  ever  be  worth  a man’s  glance  as  he  passes 
by.  The  test  is  absolute,  inevitable — Is  your  art  first  with 
you  ? Then  you  are  artists  ; you  may  be,  after  you  have  made 
your  money,  misers  and  usurers  ; you  may  be,  after  you  have 
got  your  fame,  jealous,  and  proud,  and  wretched,  and  base  : 
but  yet,  as  long  as  you  won’t  spoil  your  work , you  are  artists. 
On  the  other  hand — Is  your  money  first  with  you,  and  your 
fame  first  with  you  ? Then,  you  may  be  very  charitable  with 
your  money,  and  very  magnificent  with  your  money,  and  very 
graceful  in  the  way  you  wear  your  reputation,  and  ver}r  court- 
eous to  those  beneath  you,  and  very  acceptable  to  those  above 
you  ; but  you  are  not  artists.  You  are  mechanics,  and  drudges. 

II.  You  must  love  the  creation  you  work  in  the  midst  of. 
For,  wholly  in  proportion  to  the  intensity  of  feeling  which 
you  bring  to  the  subject  you  have  chosen,  will  be  the  depth 
and  justice  of  our  perception  of  its  character.  And  this  depth 
of  feeling  is  not  to  be  gained  on  the  instant,  when  you  want 
to  bring  it  to  bear  on  this  or  that.  It  is  the  result  of  the  gen- 
eral habit  of  striving  to  feel  rightly  ; and,  among  thousands 
of  various  means  of  doing  this,  perhaps  the  one  I ought  spe- 
cially to  name  to  you,  is  the  keeping  yourselves  clear  of  petty 
and  mean  cares.  Whatever  you  do,  don’t  be  anxious,  nor  fill 
your  heads  with  little  chagrins  and  little  desires.  I have  just 
said,  that  you  may  be  great  artists,  and  yet  be  miserly  and 
jealous,  and  troubled  about  many  things.  So  you  may  be  ; 
but  I said  also  that  the  miserliness  or  trouble  must  not  be  in 
your  hearts  all  day.  It  is  possible  that  you  may  get  a habit 
of  saving  money  ; or  it  is  possible,  at  a time  of  great  trial, 
you  may  yield  to  the  temptation  of  speaking  unjustly  of  a 
rival, — and  you  will  shorten  your  powers  and  dim  your  sight 
even  by  this  ; — but  the  thing  that  you  have  to  dread  far  more 
than  any  such  unconscious  habit,  or  any  such  momentary  fall 
— is  the  constancy  of  small  emotions ; — the  anxiety  whether 


100 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


Mr.  So-and-so  will  like  your  work  ; whether  such  and  such  a 
workman  will  do  all  that  you  want  of  him,  and  so  on  ; — not 
wrong  feelings  or  anxieties  in  themselves,  but  impertinent, 
and  wholly  incompatible  with  the  full  exercise  of  your  imag- 
ination. 

Keep  yourselves,  therefore,  quiet,  peaceful,  with  your  eyes 
open.  It  doesn’t  matter  at  all  what  Mr.  So-and-so  thinks  of 
your  work  ; but  it  matters  a great  deal  what  that  bird  is  doing 
up  there  in  its  nest,  or  how  that  vagabond  child  at  the  street 
corner  is  managing  his  game  of  knuckle-down.  And  remem- 
ber, you  cannot  turn  aside  from  your  own  interests,  to  the 
birds’  and  the  children’s  interests,  unless  you  have  long  before 
got  into  the  habit  of  loving  and  watching  birds  and  children  ; 
so  that  it  all  comes  at  last  to  the  forgetting  yourselves,  and 
the  living  out  of  yourselves,  in  the  calm  of  the  great  world, 
or  if  you  will,  in  its  agitation  ; but  always  in  a calm  of  your 
own  bringing.  Do  not  think  it  wasted  time  to  submit  your- 
selves to  any  influence  which  may  bring  upon  you  any  noble 
feeling.  Kise  early,  always  wTatch  the  sunrise,  and  the  way 
the  clouds  break  from  the  dawrn  ; you  will  cast  your  statue- 
draperies  in  quite  another  than  your  common  w*ay,  when  the 
remembrance  of  that  cloud  motion  is  with  you,  and  of  the 
scarlet  vesture  of  the  morning.  Live  always  in  the  spring- 
time in  the  country  ; you  do  not  know  what  leaf-form  means, 
unless  you  have  seen  the  buds  burst,  and  the  young  leaves 
breathing  low  in  the  sunshine,  and  wondering  at  the  first 
showier  of  rain.  But  above  all,  accustom  yourselves  to  look 
for,  and  to  love,  all  nobleness  of  gesture  and  feature  in  the 
human  form  ; and  remember  that  the  highest  nobleness  is 
usually  among  the  aged,  the  poor,  and  the  infirm  ; you  will 
find,  in  the  end,  that  it  is  not  the  strong  arm  of  the  soldier, 
nor  the  laugh  of  the  young  beauty,  that  are  the  best  studies 
for  you.  Look  at  them,  and  look  at  them  reverently  ; but  be 
assured  that  endurance  is  nobler  than  strength,  and  patience 
than  beauty  ; and  that  it  is  not  in  the  high  church  pews, 
where  the  gay  dresses  are,  but  in  the  church  free  seats,  where 
the  widows’  wreeds  are,  that  you  may  see  the  faces  that  will 
fit  best  between  the  angels’  wfings,  in  the  church  porch. 


IMAGINATION  IN  ARCHITECTURE. 


101 


m.  And  therefore,  lastly,  and  chiefly,  you  must'  love  the 
creatures  to  whom  you  minister,  your  fellow-men  ; for,  if 
you  do  not  love  them,  not  only  will  you  be  little  interested 
in  the  passing  events  of  life,  but  in  all  your  gazing  at  hu- 
manity, you  will  be  apt  to  be  struck  only  by  outside  form, 
and  not  by  expression.  It  is  only  kindness  and  tender- 
ness which  will  ever  enable  you  to  see  what  beauty  there 
is  in  the  dark  eyes  that  are  sunk  with  weeping,  and  in  the 
paleness  of  those  fixed  faces  which  the  earth’s  adversity  has 
compassed  about,  till  they  shine  in  their  patience  like  dying 
watchfires  through  twilight.  But  it  is  not  this  only  which 
makes  it  needful  for  you,  if  you  would  be  great,  to  be  also 
kind  ; there  is  a most  important  and  all-essential  reason  in  the 
very  nature  of  your  own  art.  So  soon  as  you  desire  to  build 
largely,  and  with  addition  of  noble  sculpture,  you  will  find 
that  your  work  must  be  associative.  You  cannot  carve  a whole 
cathedral  yourself — you  can  carve  but  few  and  simple  parts  of 
it.  Either  your  own  work  must  be  disgraced  in  the  mass  of  the 
collateral  inferiority,  or  you  must  raise  your  fellow-designers  to 
correspondence  of  power.  If  you  have  genius,  you  will  your- 
selves take  the  lead  in  the  building  you  design  ; you  will  carve 
its  porch  and  direct  its  disposition.  But  for  all  subsequent 
advancement  of  its  detail,  you  must  trust  to  the  agency  and 
the  invention  of  others  ; and  it  rests  with  you  either  to  repress 
what  faculties  your  workmen  have,  into  cunning  subordination 
to  your  own  ; or  to  rejoice  in  discovering  even  the  powers  that 
may  rival  you,  and  leading  forth  mind  after  mind  into  fellow- 
ship with  your  fancy,  and  association  with  your  fame. 

I need  not  tell  you  that  if  you  do  the  first — if  you  endeavour 
to  depress  or  disguise  the  talents  of  your  subordinates — you 
are  lost ; for  nothing  could  imply  more  darkly  and  decisively 
than  this,  that  your  art  and  your  work  were  not  beloved  by 
you  ; that  it  was  your  own  prosperity  that  you  were  seeking, 
and  your  own  skill  only  that  you  cared  to  contemplate.  I do 
not  say  that  you  must  not  be  jealous  at  all  ; it  is  rarely  in 
human  nature  to  be  wholly  without  jealousy  ; and  you  may  be 
forgiven  for  going  some  day  sadly  home,  when  you  find  some 
youth,  unpractised  and  unapproved,  giving  the  life-stroke  to 


102 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


his  work  which  you,  after  years  of  training,  perhaps,  cannot 
reach  ; but  your  jealousy  must  not  conquer — your  love  of  your 
building  must  conquer,  helped  by  your  kindness  of  heart.  See 
—I  set  no  high  or  difficult  standard  before  you.  I do  not 
say  that  you  are  to  surrender  your  pre-eminence  in  mere  un- 
selfish generosity.  But  I do  say  that  you  must  surrender  your 
pre-eminence  in  your  love  of  your  building  helped  by  your 
kindness  ; and  that  whomsoever  you  find  better  able  to  do  what 
will  adorn  it  than  you, — that  person  you  are  to  give  place  to  ; 
and  to  console  yourselves  for  the  humiliation,  first,  by  your 
joy  in  seeing  the  edifice  grow  more  beautiful  under  his  chisel, 
and  secondly,  by  your  sense  of  having  done  kindly  and  justly. 
But  if  you  are  morally  strong  enough  to  make  the  kindness 
and  justice  the  first  motive,  it  will  be  better ; — best  of  all, 
if  you  do  not  consider  it  as  kindness  at  all,  but  bare  and 
stem  justice  ; for,  truly,  such  help  as  we  can  give  each 
other  in  this  world  is  a debt  to  each  other  ; and  the  man 
who  perceives  a superiority  or  a capacity  in  a subordinate, 
and  neither  confesses,  nor  assists  it,  is  not  merely  the  with- 
holder  of  kindness,  but  the  committer  of  injury.  But  be 
the  motive  what  you  will,  only  see  that  you  do  the  thing ; 
and  take  the  joy  of  the  consciousness  that,  as  your  art  em- 
braces a wider  field  than  all  others — and  addresses  a vaster 
multitude  than  all  others — and  is  surer  of  audience  than  all 
others — so  it  is  profounder  and  holier  in  Fellowship  than 
all  others.  The  artist,  when  his  pupil  is  perfect,  must  see  him 
leave  his  side  that  he  may  declare  his  distinct,  perhaps  oppo- 
nent, skill.  Man  of  science  wrestles  with  man  of  science  for 
priority  of  discovery,  and  pursues  in  pangs  of  jealous  haste 
his  solitary  inquiry.  You  alone  are  called  by  kindness, — by 
necessity, — by  equity,  to  fraternity  of  toil ; and  thus,  in  those 
misty  and  massive  piles  which  rise  above  the  domestic  roofs 
of  our  ancient  cities,  there  was — there  may  be  again — a mean- 
ing more  profound  and  true  than  any  that  fancy  so  commonly 
has  attached  to  them.  Men  say  their  pinnacles  point  to  heaven. 
Why,  so  does  every  tree  that  buds,  and  every  bird  that  rises 
as  it  sings.  Men  say  their  aisles  are  good  for  worship.  Why, 
so  is  every  mountain  glen,  and  rough  sea-shore.  But  this  they 


IRON,  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY.  103 

have  of  distinct  and  indisputable  glory, — that  their  mighty 
walls  were  never  raised,  and  never  shall  be,  but  by  men  who 
love  and  aid  each  other  in  their  weakness  that  all  their  in- 
terlacing strength  of  vaulted  stone  has  its  foundation  upon 
the  stronger  arches  of  manly  fellowship,  and  all  their  changing 
grace  of  depressed  or  lifted  pinnacle  owes  its  cadence  and 
completeness  to  sweeter  symmetries  of  human  soul. 


LECTURE  V. 

THE  WORK  OF  IRON,  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY. 

A Lecture  Delivered  at  Tunbridge  Wells,  February,  1858. 

When  first  I heard  that  you  wished  me  to  address  you  this 
evening,  it  was  a matter  of  some  doubt  with  me  whether  I 
could  find  any  subject  that  would  possess  any  sufficient  in- 
terest for  you  to  justify  my  bringing  you  out  of  your  comfort- 
able houses  on  a winter’s  night.  When  I venture  to  speak 
about  my  own  special  business  of  art,  it  is  almost  always  be- 
fore students  of  art,  among  whom  I may  sometimes  permit 
myself  to  be  dull,  if  I can  feel  that  I am  useful : but  a mere 
talk  about  art,  especially  without  examples  to  refer  to  (and  I 
have  been  unable  to  prepare  any  careful  illustrations  for  this 
lecture),  is  seldom  of  much  interest  to  a general  audience. 
As  I was  considering  what  you  might  best  bear  with  me  in 
speaking  about,  there  came  naturally  into  my  mind  a subject 
connected  with  the  origin  and  present  prosperity  of  the  town 
you  live  in  ; and,  it  seemed  to  me,  in  the  out-branchings  of  it, 
capable  of  a very  general  interest.  When,  long  ago  (I  am 
afraid  to  think  how  long),  Tunbridge  Wells  was  my  Switzer- 
land, and  I used  to  be  brought  down  here  in  the  summer,  a 
sufficiently  active  child,  rejoicing  in  the  hope  of  clambering 
sandstone  cliffs  of  stupendous  height  above  the  common* 
there  used  sometimes,  as,  I suppose,  there  are  in  the  lives  of 
all  children  at  the  Wells,  to  be  dark  days  in  my  life— days  of 
condemnation  to  the  pantiles  and  band — under  which  calam- 


104 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


ities  my  only  consolation  used  to  be  in  watching,  at  every  turn 
in  my  walk,  the  welling  forth  of  the  spring  over  the  orange 
rim  of  its  marble  basin.  The  memory  of  the  clear  water, 
sparkling  over  its  saffron  stain,  came  back  to  me  as  the 
strongest  image  connected  with  the  place  ; and  it  struck  me 
that  you  might  not  be  unwilling,  to-night,  to  thiuk  a little 
over  the  full  significance  of  that  saffron  stain,  and  of  the 
power,  in  other  ways  and  other  functions,  of  the  steelly  ele- 
ment to  which  so  many  here  owe  returning  strength  and  life ; 
— chief  as  it  has  been  always,  and  is  yet  more  and  more  mark- 
edly so  day  by  day,  among  the  precious  gifts  of  the  earth. 

The  subject  is,  of  course,  too  wide  to  be  more  than  suggest- 
ively treated  ; and  even  my  suggestions  must  be  few,  and 
drawn  chiefly  from  my  owrn  fields  of  work ; nevertheless,  I 
think  I shall  have  time  to  indicate  some  courses  of  thought 
which  you  may  afterwards  follow  out  for  yourselves  if  they  in- 
terest you  ; and  so  I will  not  shrink  from  the  full  scope  of  the 
subject  which  I have  announced  to  you — the  functions  oi 
Iron,  in  Nature,  Art,  and  Policy. 

"Without  more  preface,  I will  take  up  the  first  head. 

L Iron  in  Nature. — You  all  probably  know  that  the  ochreous 
stain,  which,  perhaps,  is  often  thought  to  spoil  the  basin  of 
your  spring,  is  iron  in  a state  of  rust : and  when  you  see 
rusty  iron  in  other  places  you  generally  think,  not  only  that  it 
spoils  the  places  it  stains,  but  that  it  is  spoiled  itself — that 
rusty  iron  is  spoiled  iron. 

For  most  of  our  uses  it  generally  is  so ; and  because  we 
cannot  use  a rusty  knife  or  razor  so  well  as  a polished  one, 
we  suppose  it  to  be  a great  defect  in  iron  that  it  is  subject  to 
rust.  But  not  at  all.  On  the  contrary,  the  most  perfect  and 
useful  state  of  it  is  that  ochreous  stain ; and  therefore  it  is 
endowed  with  so  ready  a disposition  to  get  itself  into  that 
state.  It  is  not  a fault  in  the  iron,  but  a virtue,  to  be  so  fond 
of  getting  rusted,  for  in  that  condition  it  fulfils  its  most  im- 
portant functions  in  the  universe,  and  most  kindly  duties  to 
mankind.  Nay,  in  a certain  sense,  and  almost  a literal  one, 
we  may  say  that  iron  rusted  is  Living  ; but  when  pure  or 
polished,  Dead.  You  all  probably  know  that  in  the  mixed 


IRON,  IN  NATURE , ART,  AND  POLICY.  105 

air  we  breathe,  the  part  of  it  essentially  needful  to  us  is  called 
oxygen  , and  that  this  substance  is  to  all  animals,  in  the  most 
accurate  sense  of  the  word,  ‘‘breath  of  life.”  The  nervous 
power  of  life  is  a different  thing  ; but  the  supporting  element 
of  the  breath,  without  which  the  blood,  and  therefore  the  life, 
cannot  be  nourished,  is  this  oxygen.  Now  it  is  this  very  same 
air  which  the  iron  breathes  when  it  gets  rusty.  It  takes  the 
oxygen  from  the  atmosphere  as  eagerly  as  we  do,  though  it 
uses  it  differently.  The  iron  keeps  all  that  it  gets  ; we,  and 
other  animals,  part  with  it  again ; but  the  metal  absolutely 
keeps  what  it  has  once  received  of  this  aerial  gift ; and  the 
ochreous  dust  which  we  so  much  despise  is,  in  fact,  just  so 
much  nobler  than  pure  iron,  in  so  far  as  it  is  iron  and  the  air. 
Nobler,  and  more  useful— for,  indeed,  as  I shall  be  able  to 
show  you  presently — the  main  service  of  this  metal,  and  of  all 
other  metals,  to  us,  is  not  in  making  knives,  and  scissors,  and 
pokers,  and  pans,  but  in  making  the  ground  we  feed  from, 
and  nearly  all  the  substances  first  needful  to  our  existence. 
For  these  are  all  nothing  but  metals  and  oxygen— metals  with 
breath  put  into  them.  Sand,  lime,  clay,  and  the  rest  of  the 
earths— potash  and  soda,  and  the  rest  of  the  alkalies— are  all 
of  them  metals  which  have  undergone  this,  so  to  speak,  vital 
change,  and  have  been  rendered  fit  for  the  service  of  man  by 
permanent  unity  with  the  purest  air  which  he  himself 
breathes.  There  is  only  one  metal  which  does  not  rust 
readily  ; and  that,  in  its  influence  on  Man  hitherto,  has  caused 
Death  rather  than  Life  ; it  will  not  be  put  to  its  right  use  till 
it  is  made  a pavement  of,  and  so  trodden  under  foot. 

Is  there  not  something  striking  in  this  fact,  considered 
largely  as  one  of  the  types,  or  lessons,  furnished  by  the  in- 
animate creation  ? Here  you  have  your  hard,  bright,  cold, 
lifeless  metal  good  enough  for  swords  and  scissors — but  not 
for  food.  You  think,  perhaps,  that  your  iron  is  wonderfully 
useful  in  a pure  form,  but  how  would  you  like  the  world,  if  all 
your  meadows,  instead  of  grass,  grew  nothing  but  iron  wire — 
if  all  your  arable  ground,  instead  of  being  made  of  sand  and 
clay,  were  suddenly  turned  into  flat  surfaces  of  steel— if  the 
whole  earth,  instead  of  its  green  and  glowing  sphere,  rich 


106 


TEE  TWO  PATES. 


with  forest  and  flower,  showed  nothing  but  the  image  of  the 
vast  furnace  of  a ghastly  engine — a globe  of  black,  lifeless, 
excoriated  metal  ? It  would  be  that, — probably  it  was  once 
that ; but  assuredly  it  would  be,  were  it  not  that  all  the  sub- 
stance of  which  it  is  made  sucks  and  breathes  the  brilliancy 
of  the  atmosphere;  and  as  it  breathes,  softening  from  its 
merciless  hardness,  it  falls  into  fruitful  and  beneficent  dust ; 
gathering  itself  again  into  the  earths  from  which  we  feed,  and 
the  stones  with  which  we  build  ; — into  the  rocks  that  frame 
the  mountains,  and  the  sands  that  bind  the  sea. 

Hence,  it  is  impossible  for  you  to  take  up  the  most  insig- 
nificant pebble  at  your  feet,  without  being  able  to  read,  if  you 
like,  this  curious  lesson  in  it.  You  look  upon  it  at  first  as  if 
it  were  earth  only.  Nay,  it  answers,  “ I am  not  earth — I am 
earth  and  air  in  one ; part  of  that  blue  heaven  winch  you 
love,  and  long  for,  is  already  in  me  ; it  is  all  my  life — -without 
it  I should  be  nothing,  and  able  for  nothing  ; I could  not  min- 
ister to  you,  nor  nourish  you — I should  be  a cruel  and  help- 
less thing ; but,  because  there  is,  according  to  my  need  and 
place  in  creation,  a kind  of  soul  in  me,  I have  become  capable 
of  good,  and  helpful  in  the  circles  of  vitality.” 

Thus  far  the  same  interest  attaches  to  all  the  earths,  and 
all  the  metals  of  which  they  are  made ; but  a deeper  interest, 
and  larger  beneficence  belong  to  that  ochreous  earth  of  iron 
which  stains  the  marble  of  your  springs.  It  stains  much  be- 
sides that  marble.  It  stains  the  great  earth  wheresoever  you 
can  see  it,  far  and  wide — it  is  the  colouring  substance  ap- 
pointed to  colour  the  globe  for  the  sight,  as  w^ell  as  subdue  it 
to  the  service  of  man.  You  have  just  seen  your  hills  covered 
with  snow,  and,  perhaps,  have  enjoyed,  at  first,  the  contrast 
of  their  fair  white  with  the  dark  blocks  of  pine  woods ; but 
have  you  ever  considered  how  you  wrould  like  them  always 
white — not  pure  white,  but  dirty  white — the  wiiite  of  thaw, 
with  all  the  chill  of  snow  in  it,  but  none  of  its  brightness  ? 
That  is  what  the  colour  of  the  earth  would  be  without  its 
iron  ; that  would  be  its  colour,  not  here  or  there  only,  but  in 
all  places,  and  at  all  times.  Follow  out  that  idea  till  you  get 
it  in  some  detail.  Think  first  of  your  pretty  gravel  walks  in 


IRON,  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY.  107 


your  gardens,  yellow  and  fine,  like  plots  of  sunshine  between 
the  flower-beds  ; fancy  them  all  suddenly  turned  to  the 
colour  of  ashes.  That  is  what  they  would  be  without  iron 
ochre.  Think  of  your  winding  walks  over  the  common,  as 
warm  to  the  eye  as  they  are  dry  to  the  foot,  and  imagine 
them  all  laid  down  suddenly  with  gray  cinders.  Then  pass 
beyond  the  common  into  the  country,  and  pause  at  the  first 
ploughed  field  that  you  see  sweeping  up  the  hill  sides  in  the 
sun,  with  its  deep  brown  furrows,  and  wealth  of  ridges  all 
a-glow,  heaved  aside  by  the  ploughshare,  like  deep  folds  of  a 
mantle  of  russet  velvet — fancy  it  all  changed  suddenly  into 
grisly  furrows  in  a field  of  mud.  That  is  what  it  would  be 
without  iron.  Pass  on,  in  fancy,  over  hill  and  dale,  till  you 
reach  the  bending  line  of  the  sea  shore ; go  down  upon  its 
breezy  beach — watch  the  white  foam  flashing  among  the  amber 
of  it,  and  all  the  blue  sea  embayed  in  belts  of  gold  : then 
fancy  those  circlets  of  far  sweeping  shore  suddenly  put  into 
mounds  of  mourning — all  those  golden  sands  turned  into  gray 
slime,  the  fairies  no  more  able  to  call  to  each  other,  “ Come 
unto  these  yellow  sands ; ” but,  “ Come  unto  these  drab 
sands.”  That  is  what  they  would  be,  without  iron. 

Iron  is  in  some  sort,  therefore,  the  sunshine  and  light  of 
landscape,  so  far  as  that  light  depends  on  the  ground  ; but  it 
is  a source  of  another  kind  of  sunshine,  quite  as  important  to 
us  in  the  way  we  live  at  present — sunshine,  not  of  landscape, 
but  of  dwelling-place. 

In  these  days  of  swift  locomotion  I may  doubtless  assume 
that  most  of  my  audience  have  been  somewhere  out  of  Eng- 
land— have  been  in  Scotland,  or  France,  or  Switzerland. 
Whatever  may  have  been  their  impression,  on  returning  to 
their  own  country,  of  its  superiority  or  inferiority  in  other 
respects,  they  cannot  but  have  felt  one  thing  about  it — the 
comfortable  look  of  its  towns  and  villages.  Foreign  towns 
are  often  very  picturesque,  very  beautiful,  but  they  never  have 
quite  that  look  of  warm  self-sufficiency  and  wholesome  quiet 
with  which  our  villages  nestle  themselves  down  among  the 
green  fields.  If  you  will  take  the  trouble  to  examine  into  the 
sources  of  this  impression,  you  will  find  that  by  far  the  greater 


108 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


part  of  that  warm  and  satisfactory  appearance  depends  upon 
the  rich  scarlet  colour  of  the  bricks  and  tiles.  It  does  not 
belong  to  the  neat  building — very  neat  building  has  an  un- 
fortable  rather  than  a comfortable  look — but  it  depends  on 
the  warm  building ; our  villages  are  dressed  in  red  tiles  as 
our  old  women  are  in  red  cloaks  ; and  it  does  not  matter  how 
worn  the  cloaks,  or  how  bent  and  bowed  the  roof  may  be,  so 
long  as  there  are  no  holes  in  either  one  or  the  other,  and  the 
sobered  but  un extin guishable  colour  still  glows  in  the  shadow 
of  the  hood,  and  burns  among  the  green  mosses  of  the  gable. 
And  what  do  you  suppose  dyes  your  tiles  of  cottage  roof  ? 
You  don’t  paint  them.  It  is  nature  who  puts  all  that  lovely 
vermilion  into  the  clay  for  you  ; and  all  that  lovely  vermilion 
is  this  oxide  of  iron.  Think,  therefore,  what  your  streets  of 
towns  would  become — ugly  enough,  indeed,  already,  some  of 
them,  but  still  comfortable-looking — if  instead  of  that  warm 
brick  red,  the  houses  became  all  pepper-and-salt  colour.  Fancy 
your  country  villages  changing  from  that  homely  scarlet  of 
theirs  which,  in  its  sweet  suggestion  of  laborious  peace,  is  as 
honourable  as  the  soldiers’  scarlet  of  laborious  battle — sup- 
pose all  those  cottage  roofs,  I say,  turned  at  once  into  the 
colour  of  unbaked  clay,  the  colour  of  street  gutters  in  rainy 
weather.  That’s  what  they  would  be,  without  iron. 

There  is,  however,  yet  another  effect  of  colour  in  our  Eng- 
lish country  towns  which,  perhaps,  you  may  not  all  yourselves 
have  noticed,  but  for  which  you  must  take  the  word  of  a 
sketcher.  They  are  not  so  often  merely  warm  scarlet  as  they 
are  warm  purple  ; — a more  beautiful  colour  still  : and  they 
owe  this  colour  to  a mingling  with  the  vermilion  of  the  deep 
grayish  or  purple  hue  of  our  fine  Welsh  slates  on  the  more 
respectable  roofs,  made  more  blue  still  by  the  colour  of  in- 
tervening atmosphere.  If  you  examine  one  of  these  Welsh 
slates  freshly  broken,  you  will  find  its  purple  colour  clear  and 
vivid  ; and  although  never  strikingly  so  after  it  has  been  long 
exposed  to  weather,  it  always  retains  enough  of  the  tint  to 
give  rich  harmonies  of  distant  purple  in  opposition  to  the 
green  of  our  woods  and  fields.  Whatever  brightness  or  power 
there  is  in  the  hue  is  entirely  owing  to  the  o^ide  of  iron. 


IRON,  IN  NATURE , ART,  AND  POLICY.  109 

Without  it  the  slates  would  either  be  pale  stone  colour,  or 
cold  gray,  or  black. 

Thus  far  we  have  only  been  considering  the  use  and  pleas- 
antness of  iron  in  the  common  earth  of  clay.  But  there  are 
three  kinds  of  earth  which  in  mixed  mass  and  prevalent 
quantity,  form  the  world.  Those  are,  in  common  language, 
the  earths  of  clay,  of  lime,  and  of  flint.  Many  other  elements 
are  mingled  with  these  in  sparing  quantities  ; but  the  great 
frame  and  substance  of  the  earth  is  made  of  these  three,  so 
that  wherever  you  stand  on  solid  ground,  in  any  country  of 
the  globe,  the  thing  that  is  mainly  under  your  feet  will  be 
either  clay,  limestone,  or  some  condition  of  the  earth  of  flint, 
mingled  with  both. 

These  being  what  we  have  usually  to  deal  with,  Nature  seems 
to  have  set  herself  to  make  these  three  substances  as  interest- 
ing to  us,  and  as  beautiful  for  us,  as  she  can.  The  clay,  being 
a soft  and  changeable  substance,  she  doesn’t  take  much 
pains  about,  as  we  have  seen,  till  it  is  baked  ; she  brings  the 
colour  into  it  only  when  it  receives  a permanent  form.  But 
the  limestone  and  flint  she  paints,  in  her  own  way,  in  their 
native  state : and  her  object  in  painting  them  seems  to  be 
much  the  same  as  in  her  painting  of  flowers  ; to  draw  us, 
careless  and  idle  human  creatures,  to  watch  her  a little,  and 
see  what  she  is  about — that  being  on  the  whole  good  for 
us,  her  children.  For  Nature  is  always  carrying  on  very 
strange  work  with  this  limestone  and  flint  of*  hers  : laying 
down  beds  of  them  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea;  building 
islands  out  of  the  sea  ; filling  chinks  and  veins  in  moun- 
tains with  curious  treasures  ; petrifying  mosses,  and  trees, 
and  shells ; in  fact,  carrying  on  all  sorts  of  business, 
subterranean  or  submarine,  which  it  would  be  highly  de- 
sirable for  us,  who  profit  and  live  by  it,  to  notice  as  it  goes 
on.  And  apparently  to  lead  us  to  do  this,  she  makes  picture- 
books  for  us  of  limestone  and  flint;  and  tempts  us,  like 
foolish  children  as  we  are,  to  read  her  books  by  the  pretty 
colours  in  them.  The  pretty  colours  in  her  limestone-books 
form  those  variegated  marbles  which  all  mankind  have  taken 
delight  to  polish  and  build  with  from  the  beginning  of  time  ; 


110 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


and  the  pretty  colours  in  her  flint-books  form  those  agates 
jaspers,  cornelians,  bloodstones,  onyxes,  cairngorms,  chryso* 
prases,  which  men  have  in  like  manner  taken  delight  to  cut, 
and  polish,  and  make  ornaments  of,  from  the  beginning  of 
time  ; and  yet,  so  much  of  babies  are  they,  and  so  fond  of 
looking  at  the  pictures  instead  of  reading  the  book,  that  I 
question  whether,  after  six  thousand  years  of  cutting  and 
polishing,  there  are  above  two  or  three  people  out  of  any 
given  hundred,  who  know,  or  care  to  know,  how  a bit  of  agate 
or  a bit  of  marble  was  made,  or  painted. 

How  it  was  made,  may  not  be  always  very  easy  to  say  ; but 
with  what  it  was  painted  there  is  no  manner  of  question.  All 
those  beautiful  violet  veinings  and  variegations  of  the  marbles 
of  Sicily  and  Spain,  the  glowing  orange  and  amber  colours  of 
those  of  Siena,  the  deep  russet  of  the  Rosso  antico,  and  the 
blood-colour  of  all  the  precious  jaspers  that  enrich  the  tem- 
ples of  Italy ; and,  finally,  all  the  lovely  transitions  of  tint  in 
the  pebbles  of  Scotland  and  the  Rhine,  which  form,  though 
not  the  most  precious,  by  far  the  most  interesting  portion  of 
our  modern  jewellers’  work  ; — all  these  are  painted  by  nature 
with  this  one  material  only,  variously  proportioned  and  ap- 
plied— the  oxide  of  iron  that  stains  your  Tunbridge  springs. 

But  this  is  not  all,  nor  the  best  part  of  the  work  of  iron.  Its 
service  in  producing  these  beautiful  stones  is  only  rendered 
to  rich  people,  who  can  afford  to  quarry  and  polish  them. 
But  Nature  paints  for  all  the  world,  poor  and  rich  together  : 
and  while,  therefore,  she  thus  adorns  the  innermost  rocks  of 
her  hills,  to  tempt  your  investigation,  or  indulge  your  luxury, 
— she  paints,  far  more  carefully,  the  outsides  of  the  hills, 
which  are  for  the  eyes  of  the  shepherd  and  the  ploughman. 
I spoke  just  now  of  the  effect  in  the  roofs  of  our  villages  of 
their  purple  slates  : but  if  the  slates  are  beautiful  even  in  their 
flat  and  formal  rows  on  house-roofs,  much  more  are  they 
beautiful  on  the  rugged  crests  and  flanks  of  their  native 
mountains.  Have  you  ever  considered,  in  speaking  as  we  do 
so  often  of  distant  blue  hills,  what  it  is  that  makes  them 
blue  ? To  a certain  extent  it  is  distance  ; but  distance  alone 
will  not  do  it.  Many  hills  look  white,  however  distant.  That 


IRON,  IN  NATURE , ART, \ AND  POLICY.  Ill 

lovely  dark  purple  colour  of  our  Welsh  and  Highland  hills  is 
owing,  not  to  their  distance  merely,  but  to  their  rocks.  Some 
of  their  rocks  are,  indeed,  too  dark  to  be  beautiful,  being 
black  or  ashy  gray  ; owing  to  imperfect  and  porous  structure. 
But  when  you  see  this  dark  colour  dashed  with  russet  and 
blue,  and  coming  out  in  masses  among  the  green  ferns,  so 
purple  that  you  can  hardly  tell  at  first  whether  it  is  rock  or 
heather,  then  you  must  thank  your  old  Tunbridge  friend,  the 
oxide  of  iron. 

But  this  is  not  all.  It  is  necessary  for  the  beauty  of  hill 
scenery  that  Nature  should  colour  not  only  her  soft  rocks, 
but  her  hard  ones  ; and  she  colours  them  with  the  same  thing,' 
only  more  beautifully.  Perhaps  you  have  wondered  at  my 
use  of  the  word  “ purple,”  so  often  of  stones  ; but  the  Greeks, 
and  still  more  the  Romans,  who  had  profound  respect  for 
purple,  used  it  of  stone  long  ago.  You  have  all  heard  of 
“porphyry”  as  among  the  most  precious  of  the  harder  mas- 
sive stones.  The  colour  which  gave  it  that  noble  name,  as  well 

as  that  which  gives  the  flush  to  all  the  rosy  granite  of  Egypt 

yes,  and  to  the  rosiest  summits  of  the  Alps  themselves— is 
still  owing  to  the  same  substance— your  humble  oxide  of  iron. 
And  last  of  all : 

A nobler  colour  than  all  these— the  noblest  colour  ever 
seen  on  this  earth— one  which  belongs  to  a strength  greater 
than  that  of  the  Egyptian  granite,  and  to  a beauty  greater 
than  that  of  the  sunset  or  the  rose— is  still  mysteriously  con- 
nected with  the  presence  of  this  dark  iron.  I believe  it  is  not 
ascertained  on  what  the  crimson  of  blood  actually  depends  ; 
but  the  colour  is  connected,  of  course,  with  its  vitality,  and 
that  vitality  with  the  existence  of  iron  as  one  of  its  substantial 
elements. 

Is  it  not  strange  to  find  this  stern  and  strong  metal  mingled 
so  delicately  in  our  human  life,  that  we  cannot  even  blush 
without  its  help?  Think  of  it,  my  fair  and  gentle  hearers; 
how  terrible  the  alternative— sometimes  you  have  actually  no 
choice  but  to  be  brazen-faced,  or  iron-faced ! 

In  this  slight  review  of  some  of  the  functions  of  the  metal, 
you  observe  that  I confine  myself  strictly  to  its  operations  as 


112 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


a colouring  element.  I should  only  confuse  your  conception 
of  the  facts,  if  I endeavoured  to  describe  its  uses  as  a sub- 
stantial element,  either  in  strengthening  rocks,  or  influencing 
vegetation  by  the  decomposition  of  rocks.  I have  not,  there- 
fore, even  glanced  at  any  of  the  more  serious  uses  of  the 
metal  in  the  economy  of  nature.  But  what  I wish  you  to  cany 
clearly  away  with  you  is  the  remembrance  that  in  all  these 
uses  the  metal  would  be  nothing  without  the  air.  The  pure 
metal  has  no  power,  and  never  occurs  in  nature  at  all  except 
in  meteoric  stones,  whose  fall  no  one  can  account  for,  and 
which  are  useless  after  they  have  fallen  : in  the  necessary 
work  of  the  world,  the  iron  is  invariably  joined  with  the 
oxygen,  and  would  be  capable  of  no  service  or  beauty  what- 
ever without  it. 

H Iron  in  Art. — Passing,  then,  from  the  offices  of  the 
metal  in  the  operations  of  nature  to  its  uses  in  the  hands  of 
man,  you  must  remember,  in  the  outset,  that  the  type  which 
has  been  thus  given  you,  by  the  lifeless  metal,  of  the  action 
of  body  and  soul  together,  has  noble  antitype  in  the  operation 
of  all  human  power.  All  art  worthy  the  name  is  the  energy — 
neither  of  the  human  body  alone,  nor  of  the  human  soul  alone, 
but  of  both  united,  one  guiding  the  other  : good  craftsman- 
ship and  work  of  the  fingers,  joined  with  good  emotion  and 
work  of  the  heart 

There  is  no  good  art,  nor  possible  judgment  of  art,  when 
these  two  are  not  united  ; yet  we  are  constantly  trying  to 
separate  them.  Our  amateurs  cannot  be  persuaded  but  that 
they  may  produce  some  kind  of  art  by  their  fancy  or  sensi- 
bility, without  going  through  the  necessary  manual  toil.  That 
is  entirely  hopeless.  Without  a certain  number,  and  that  a 
very  great  number,  of  steady  acts  of  hand — a practice  as  care- 
ful and  constant  as  would  be  necessary  to  learn  any  other 
manual  business — no  drawing  is  possible.  On  the  other  side, 
the  workman,  and  those  who  employ  him,  are  continually  try- 
ing to  produce  art  by  trick  or  habit  of  fingers,  without  using 
their  fancy  or  sensibility.  That  also  is  hopeless.  Without 
mingling  of  heart-passion  with  hand-power,  no  art  is  possible.* 
* No  fine  art,  that  is.  See  the  previous  definition  of  fine  art  at  p.  38. 


IRON,  IN  NATURE , ART , AiVD  POLIO 7. 


113 


The  highest  art  unites  both  in  their  intensest  degrees  : the 
action  of  the  hand  at  its  finest,  with  that  of  the  heart  at  its 
fullest. 

Hence  it  follows  that  the  utmost  power  of  art  can  only  be 
given  in  a material  capable  of  receiving  and  retaining  the  in- 
fluence of  the  subtlest  touch  of  the  human  hand.  That  hand 
is  the  most  perfect  agent  of  material  power  existing  in  the 
universe  ; and  its  full  subtlety  can  only  be  shown  when  the 
material  it  works  on,  or  with,  is  entirely  yielding.  The  chords 
of  a perfect  instrument  will  receive  it,  but  not  of  an  imperfect 
one ; the  softly  bending  point  of  the  hair  pencil,  and  soft 
melting  of  colour,  will  receive  it,  but  not  even  the  chalk  or  pen 
point,  still  less  the  steel  point,  chisel,  or  marble.  The  hand 
of  a sculptor  may,  indeed,  be  as  subtle  as  that  of  a painter,  but 
all  its  subtlety  is  not  bestowable  nor  expressible : the  touch  of 
Titian,  Correggio,  or  Turner,*  is  a far  more  marvellous  piece  of 
nervous  action  than  can  be  shown  in  anything  but  colour,  or 
in  the  very  highest  conditions  of  executive  expression  in  mu- 
sic. In  proportion  as  the  material  worked  upon  is  less  delicate, 
the  execution  necessarily  becomes  lower,  and  the  art  with  it. 
This  is  one  main  principle  of  all  work.  Another  is,  that  what- 
ever the  material  you  choose  to  work  with,  your  art  is  base  if 
it  does  not  bring  out  the  distinctive  qualities  of  that  material. 

The  reason  of  this  second  law  is,  that  if  you  don’t  want  the 
qualities  of  the  substance  you  use,  you  ought  to  use  some 
other  substance  : it  can  be  only  affectation,  and  desire  to  dis- 
play your  skill,  that  lead  you  to  employ  a refractory  substance, 
and  therefore  your  art  will  all  be  base.  Glass,  for  instance, 
is  eminently,  in  its  nature,  transparent.  If  you  don’t  want 
transparency,  let  the  glass  alone.  Do  not  try  to  make  a win- 
dow look  like  an  opaque  picture,  but  take  an  opaque  ground  to 
begin  with.  Again,  marble  is  eminently  a solid  and  massive 
substance.  Unless  you  want  mass  and  solidity,  don’t  work  in 
marble.  If  you  wish  for  lightness,  take  wood  ; if  for  freedom, 
take  stucco  ; if  for  ductility,  take  glass.  Don’t  try  to  carve 
feathers,  or  trees,  or  nets,  or  foam,  out  of  marble.  Carve  white 
limbs  and  broad  breasts  only  out  of  that. 

* See  Appendix  IV.,  “Subtlety  of  Hand.” 


114 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


So  again,  iron  is  eminently  a ductile  and  tenacious  substance 
— tenacious  above  all  things,  ductile  more  than  most.  When 
you  want  tenacity,  therefore,  and  involved  form,  take  iron. 
It  is  eminently  made  for  that.  It  is  the  material  given  to  the 
sculptor  as  the  companion  of  marble,  with  a message,  as  plain 
as  it  can  well  be  spoken,  from  the  lips  of  the  earth-mother, 
“ Here’s  for  you  to  cut,  and  here’s  for  you  to  hammer.  Shape 
this,  and  twist  that.  What  is  solid  and  simple,  carve  out ; what 
is  thin  and  entangled,  beat  out.  I give  you  all  kinds  of  forms 
to  be  delighted  in  ; — fluttering  leaves  as  well  as  fair  bodies  ; 
twisted  branches  as  well  as  open  brows.  The  leaf  and  the 
branch  you  may  beat  and  drag  into  their  imagery  : the  body 
and  brow  you  shall  reverently  touch  into  their  imagery.  And 
if  you  choose  rightly  and  work  rightly,  what  you  do  shall  be 
safe  afterwards.  Your  slender  leaves  shall  not  break  off  in  my 
tenacious  iron,  though  they  may  be  rusted  a little  with  an  iron 
autumn.  Your  broad  surfaces  shall  not  be  unsmoothed  in  my 
pure  crystalline  marble — no  decay  shall  touch  them.  But  if 
you  carve  in  the  marble  what  will  break  with  a touch,  or  mould 
in  the  metal  what  a stain  of  rust  or  verdigris  will  spoil,  it  is 
your  fault — not  mine.” 

These  are  the  main  principles  in  this  matter ; which,  like 
nearly  all  other  right  principles  in  art,  we  moderns  delight  in 
contradicting  as  directly  and  specially  as  may  be.  We  con- 
tinually look  for,  and  praise,  in  our  exhibitions  the  sculpture 
of  veils,  and  lace,  and  thin  leaves,  and  all  kinds  of  impossible 
things  pushed  as  far  as  possible  in  the  fragile  stone,  for  the 
sake  of  showing  the  sculptor’s  dexterity.*  On  the  other  hand, 

* I do  not  mean  to  attach  any  degree  of  blame  to  the  effort  to  repre- 
sent leafage  in  marble  for  certain  expressive  purposes.  The  later  works 
of  Mr.  Munro  have  depended  for  some  of  their  most  tender  thoughts 
on  a delicate  and  skilful  use  of  such  accessories.  And  in  general,  leaf 
sculpture  is  good  and  admirable,  if  it  renders,  as  in  Gothic  work,  the 
grace  and  lightness  of  the  leaf  by  the  arrangement  of  light  and  shadow 
— supporting  the  masses  well  bv  strength  of  stone  below  ; but  all  carv- 
ing is  base  which  proposes  to  itself  slightness  as  an  aim,  and  tries  to  imi- 
tate the  absolute  thinness  of  thin  or  slight  things,  as  much  modern  wood 
carving  does.  I saw  in  Italy,  a year  or  two  ago,  a marble  sculpture  of 
birds’  nests. 


IRON,  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY. 


115 


we  cast  our  iron  into  bars — brittle,  though  an  inch  thick — 
sharpen  them  at  the  ends,  and  consider  fences,  and  other  work, 
made  of  such  materials,  decorative  ! I do  not  believe  it  would 
be  easy  to  calculate  the  amount  of  mischief  done  to  our  taste 
in  England  by  that  fence  iron-work  of  ours  alone.  If  it  were 
asked  of  us  by  a single  characteristic,  to  distinguish  the  dwell- 
ings of  a country  into  two  broad  sections  ; and  to  set,  on  one 
side,  the  places  where  people  were,  for  the  most  part,  simple, 
happy,  benevolent,  and  honest ; and,  on  the  other  side,  the 
places  where  at  least  a great  number  of  the  people  were  so- 
phisticated, unkind,  uncomfortable,  and  unprincipled,  there  is, 
I think,  one  feature  that  you  could  fix  upon  as  a positive  test : 
the  uncomfortable  and  unprincipled  parts  of  a country  would 
be  the  parts  where  people  lived  among  iron  railings,  and  the 
comfortable  and  principled  parts  where  they  had  none.  A 
broad  generalization,  you  will  say  ! Perhaps  a little  too  broad ; 
yet,  in  all  sobriety,  it  will  come  truer  than  you  think.  Con- 
sider every  other  kind  of  fence  or  defence,  and  you  will  find 
some  virtue  in  it ; but  in  the  iron  railing  none.  There  is,  first, 
your  castle  rampart  of  stone — somewhat  too  grand  to  be  con- 
sidered here  among  our  types  of  fencing ; next,  your  garden 
or  park  wall  of  brick,  which  has  indeed  often  an  unkind  look 
on  the  outside,  but  there  is  more  modesty  in  it  than  unkind- 
ness. It  generally  means,  not  that  the  builder  of  it  wants  to 
shut  you  out  from  the  view  of  his  garden,  but  from  the  view 
of  himself  : it  is  a frank  statement  that  as  he  needs  a certain 
portion  of  time  to  himself,  so  he  needs  a certain  portion  of 
ground  to  himself,  and  must  not  be  stared  at  when  he  digs 
there  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  or  plays  at  leapfrog  with  his  boys 
from  school,  or  talks  over  old  times  with  his  wife,  walking  up 
and  down  in  the  evening  sunshine.  Besides,  the  brick  wall 
has  good  practical  service  in  it,  and  shelters  you  from  the 
east  wind,  and  ripens  your  peaches  and  nectarines,  and  glows 
in  autumn  like  a sunny  bank.  And,  moreover,  your  brick  wall, 
if  you  build  it  properly,  so  that  it  shall  stand  long  enough,  is 
a beautiful  thing  when  it  is  old,  and  has  assumed  its  grave 
purple  red,  touched  with  mossy  green. 

Next  to  your  lordly  wall,  in  dignity  of  enclosure,  comes 


116 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


your  close-set  wooden  paling,  which  is  more  objectionable,  be- 
cause it  commonly  means  enclosure  on  a larger  scale  than 
people  want.  Still  it  is  significative  of  pleasant  parks,  and 
well-kept  field  walks,  and  herds  of  deer,  and  other  such  aris- 
tocratic pastoralisms,  which  have  here  and  there  their  proper 
place  in  a country,  and  may  be  passed  without  any  discredit. 

Next  to  your  paling,  comes  your  low  stone  dyke,  your 
mountain  fence,  indicative  at  a glance  either  of  wild  hill  coun- 
try, or  of  beds  of  stone  beneath  the  soil ; the  hedge  of  the 
mountains — delightful  in  all  its  associations,  and  yet  more  in 
the  varied  and  craggy  forms  of  the  loose  stones  it  is  built  of ; 
and  next  to  the  low  stone  wall,  your  lowland  hedge,  either  in 
trim  line  of  massive  green,  suggested  of  the  pleasances  of  old 
Elizabethan  houses,  and  smooth  alleys  for  aged  feet,  and 
quaint  labyrinths  for  young  ones,  or  else  in  fair  entanglement 
of  eglantine  and  virgin’s  bower,  tossing  its  scented  luxuriance 
along  our  country  waysides  ; — how  many  such  you  have  here 
among  your  pretty  hills,  fruitful  with  black  clusters  of  the 
bramble  for  boys  in  autumn,  and  crimson  hawthorn  berries 
for  birds  in  winter.  And  then  last,  and  most  difficult  to  class 
among  fences,  comes  your  handrail,  expressive  of  all  sorts  of 
things  ; sometimes  having  a knowing  and  vicious  look,  which 
it  learns  at  race-courses  ; sometimes  an  innocent  and  tender 
look,  which  it  learns  at  rustic  bridges  over  cressy  brooks  ; and 
sometimes  a prudent  and  protective  look,  which  it  learns  on 
passes  of  the  Alps,  where  it  has  posts  of  granite  and  bars  of 
pine,  and  guards  the  brows  of  cliffs  and  the  banks  of  torrents. 
So  that  in  all  these  kinds  of  defence  there  is  some  good, 
pleasant,  or  noble  meaning.  But  what  meaning  has  the  iron 
railing  ? Either,  observe,  that  you  are  living  in  the  midst  of 
such  bad  characters  that  you  must  keep  them  out  by  main 
force  of  bar,  or  that  you  are  yourself  of  a character  requiring 
to  be  kept  inside  in  the  same  manner.  Your  iron  railing  al- 
ways means  thieves  outside,  or  Bedlam  inside  ; it  can  mean 
nothing  else  than  that.  If  the  people  outside  were  good  for 
anything,  a hint  in  the  way  of  fence  would  be  enough  for 
them  ; but  because  they  are  violent  and  at  enmity  with  you, 
you  are  forced  to  put  the  close  bars  and  the  spikes  at  the  top. 


IRON,  IN  NATURE \ ART,  AND  POLICY.  117 

Last  summer  I was  lodging  for  a little  while  in  a cottage  in 
the  country,  and  in  front  of  my  low  window  there  were,  first 
some  beds  of  daisies,  then  a row  of  gooseberry  and  currant 
bushes,  and  then  a low  wall  about  three  feet  above  the  ground, 
covered  with  stone-cress.  Outside,  a corn-field,  with  its  green 
ears  glistening  in  the  sun,  and  a field  path  through  it,  just 
past  the  garden  gate.  From  my  window  I could  see  every 
peasant  of  the  village  who  passed  that  way,  with  basket  on  arm 
for  market,  or  spade  on  shoulder  for  field.  When  I was  in- 
clined for  society,  I could  lean  over  my  wall,  and  talk  to  any- 
body ; when  I was  inclined  for  science,  I could  botanize  all 
along  the  top  of  my  wall— there  were  four  species  of  stone- 
cress  alone  growing  on  it ; and  when  I was  inclined  for  exer- 
cise, I could  jump  over  my  wall,  backwards  and  forwards. 
That  s the  sort  of  fence  to  have  in  a Christian  country  ; not  a 
thing  which  you  can’t  walk  inside  of  without  making  yourself 
look  like  a wild  beast,  nor  look  at  out  of  your  window  in  the 
morning  without  expecting  to  see  somebody  impaled  upon  it 
in  the  night. 

And  yet  farther,  observe  that  the  iron  railing  is  a useless 
fence— it  can  shelter  nothing,  and  support  nothing  ; you  can’t 
nail  your  peaches  to  it,  nor  protect  your  flowers  with  it,  nor 
make  anything  whatever  out  of  its  costly  tyranny ; and  be- 
sides being  useless,  it  is  an  insolent  fence  it  says  plainly  to 

everybody  who  passes — “You  may  be  an  honest  person, 

but,  also,  you  may  be  a thief:  honest  or  not,  you  shall  not 
get  in  here,  for  I am  a respectable  person,  and  much  above 
you  ; you  shall  only  see  what  a grand  place  I have  got  to  keep 
you  out  of— look  here,  and  depart  in  humiliation.” 

This,  however,  being  in  the  present  state  of  civilization  a 
frequent  manner  of  discourse,  and  there  being  unfortunately 
many  districts  where  the  iron  railing  is  unavoidable,  it  yet  re- 
mains a question  whether  you  need  absolutely  make  it  ugly, 
no  less  than  significative  of  evil.  You  must  have  railings 
round  your  squares  in  London,  and  at  the  sides  of  your  areas; 
but  need  you  therefore  have  railings  so  ugly  that  the  constant 
sight  of  them  is  enough  to  neutralise  the  effect  of  all  the 
schools  of  art  in  the  kingdom  ? You  need  not.  Far  from 


118 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


such  necessity,  it  is  even  in  your  power  to  turn  all  your  police 
force  of  iron  bars  actually  into  drawing  masters,  and  natural 
historians.  Not,  of  course,  without  some  trouble  and  some 
expense  ; you  can  do  nothing  much  worth  doing,  in  this 
world,  without  trouble,  you  can  get  nothing  much  worth  hav- 
ing without  expense.  The  main  question  is  only — what  is 
worth  doing  and  having  : — Consider,  therefore,  if  this  be  not. 
Here  is  your  iron  railing,  as  yet,  an  uneducated  monster ; a 
sombre  seneschal,  incapable  of  any  words,  except  his  per- 
petual “Keep  out ! ” and  “ Away  with  you  ! ” Would  it  not 
be  worth  some  trouble  and  cost  to  turn  this  ungainly  ruffian 
porter  into  a well-educated  servant ; who,  while  he  was  severe 
as  ever  in  forbidding  entrance  to  evilly-disposed  people,  should 
yet  have  a kind  word  for  well-disposed  people,  and  a pleasant 
look,  and  a little  useful  information  at  his  command,  in  case 
he  should  be  asked  a question  by  the  passers-by  ? 

We  have  not  time  to-night  to  look  at  many  examples  of 
ironwork  ; and  those  I happen  to  have  by  me  are  not  the  best; 
ironwork  is  not  one  of  my  special  subjects  of  study  ; so  that  I 
only  have  memoranda  of  bits  that  happened  to  come  into 
picturesque  subjects  which  I was  drawing  for  other  reasons. 
Besides,  external  ironwork  is  more  difficult  to  find  good  than 
any  other  sort  of  ancient  art ; for  when  it  gets  rusty  and 
broken,  people  are  sure,  if  they  can  afford  it,  to  send  it  to  the 
old  iron  shop,  and  get  a fine  new  grating  instead  ; and  in 
the  great  cities  of  Italy,  the  old  iron  is  thus  nearly  all  gone  : 
the  best  bits  I remember  in  the  open  air  were  at  Brescia  ; — 
fantastic  sprays  of  laurel-like  foliage  rising  over  the  garden 
gates  ; and  there  are  a few  fine  fragments  at  Verona,  and  some 
good  trellis-work  enclosing  the  Scala  tombs  ; but  on  the  whole, 
the  most  interesting  pieces,  though  by  no  means  the  purest  in 
style,  are  to  be  found  in  out-of-the-way  provincial  towns, 
where  people  do  not  care,  or  are  unable,  to  make  polite  altera- 
tions. The  little  town  of  Bellinzona,  for  instance,  on  the  south 
of  the  Alps,  and  that  of  Sion  on  the  north,  have  both  of  them 
complete  schools  of  ironwork  in  their  balconies  and  vineyard 
gates.  That  of  Bellinzona  is  the  best,  though  not  very  old— I 
suppose  most  of  it  of  the  seventeenth  century  ; still  it  is  very 


IRON ; IN  NATURE,  ART , AND  POLICY. 


119 


quaint  and  beautiful.  Here,  for  example,  (see  frontispiece), 
are  two  balconies,  from  two  different  bouses  ; one  has  been  a 
cardinal’s,  and  the  hat  is  the  principal  ornament  of  the  bal- 
cony ; its  tassels  being  wrought  with  delightful  delicacy  and 
freedom ; and  catching  the  eye  clearly  even  among  the  mass 
of  rich  wreathed  leaves.  These  tassels  and  strings  are  pre- 
cisely the  kind  of  subject  fit  for  ironwork — noble  in  ironwork, 
they  would  have  been  entirely  ignoble  in  marble,  on  the 
grounds  above  stated.  The  real  plant  of  oleander  standing 
in  the  window  enriches  the  whole  group  of  lines  very 
happily. 

The  other  balcony,  from  a very  ordinary-looking  house  in 
the  same  street,  is  much  more  interesting  in  its  details.  It  is 
shown  in  the  plate  as  it  appeared  last  summer,  with  convol- 
vulus twined  about  the  bars,  the  arrow-shaped  living  leaves 
mingled  among  the  leaves  of  iron  ; but  you  may  see  in  the 
centre  of  these  real  leaves  a cluster  of  lighter  ones,  which  are 
those  of  the  ironwork  itself.  This  cluster  is  worth  giving  a little 
larger  to  show  its  treatment.  Fig.  2 (in  Appendix  V°)  is  the 
front  view  of  it : Fig.  4,  its  profile.  It  is  composed  of  a large 
tulip  in  the  centre  ; then  two  turkscap  lilies  ; then  two  pinks, 
a little  conventionalized  ; then  two  narcissi ; then  two  nonde- 
scripts, or,  at  least,  flowers  I do  not  know  ; and  then  two  dark 
buds,  and  a few  leaves.  I say,  dark  buds,  for  all  these  flowers 
have  been  coloured  in  their  original  state.  The  plan  of  the 
group  is  exceedingly  simple  : it  is  all  enclosed  in  a pointed 
arch  (Fig.  3,  Appendix  V.) : the  large  mass  of  the  tulip  form- 
ing the  apex ; a six-foiled  star  on  each  side ; then  a jagged 
star  ; then  a five-foiled  star  ; then  an  unjagged  star  or  rose  ; 
finally  a small  bud,  so  as  to  establish  relation  and  cadence 
through  the  whole  group.  The  profile  is  very  free  and  fine, 
and  the  upper  bar  of  the  balcony  exceedingly  beautiful  in 
effect ; none  the  less  so  on  account  of  the  marvellously  sim- 
ple means  employed.  A thin  strip  of  iron  is  bent  over  a 
square  rod  ; out  of  the  edge  of  this  strip  are  cut  a series  of 
tiiangular  openings  widest  at  top,  leaving  projecting  teeth 
of  iron  (Appendix,  Fig.  5) ; then  each  of  these  projecting 
pieces  gets  a little  sharp  tap  with  the  hammer  in  front,  which 


120 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


beaks  its  edge  inwards,  tearing  it  a little  open  at  the  same 
time,  and  the  thing  is  done. 

The  common  forms  of  Swiss  ironwork  are  less  naturalistic 
than  these  Italian  balconies,  depending  more  on  beautiful  ar- 
rangements of  various  curve  ; nevertheless,  there  has  been  a 
rich  naturalist  school  at  Fribourg,  where  a few  bell-handles 
are  still  left,  consisting  of  rods  branched  into  laurel  and 
other  leafage.  At  Geneva,  modern  improvements  have  left 
nothing  ; but  at  Annecy,  a little  good  work  remains  ; the  bal- 
cony of  its  old  hotel  de  ville  especially,  with  a trout  of  the 
lake — presumably  the  town  arms — forming  its  central  orna- 
ment. 

I might  expatiate  all  night — if  you  would  sit  and  hear  me 
— on  the  treatment  of  such  required  subject,  or  introduction 
of  pleasant  caprice  by  the  old  workmen ; but  we  have  no 
more  time  to  spare,  and  I must  quit  this  part  of  our  subject — 
the  rather  as  I could  not  explain  to  you  the  intrinsic  merit  of 
such  ironwork  without  going  fully  into  the  theory  of  curvi- 
linear design  ; only  let  me  leave  with  you  this  one  distinct  as- 
sertion— that  the  quaint  beauty  and  character  of  many  natural 
objects,  such  as  intricate  branches,  grass,  foliage  (especially 
thorny  branches  and  prickly  foliage),  as  well  as  that  of  many 
animals,  plumed,  spined,  or  bristled,  is  sculpturally  expressible 
in  iron  only,  and  in  iron  would  be  majestic  and  impressive  in 
the  highest  degree  ; and  that  every  piece  of  metal  work  you 
use  might  be,  rightly  treated,  not  only  a superb  decoration, 
but  a most  valuable  abstract  of  portions  of  natural  forms, 
holding  in  dignity  precisely  the  same  relation  to  the  painted 
representation  of  plants,  that  a statue  does  to  the  painted 
form  of  man.  It  is  difficult  to  give  you  an  idea  of  the  grace 
and  interest  which  the  simplest  objects  possess  when  their 
forms  are  thus  abstracted  from  among  the  surrounding  of  rich 
circumstance  which  in  nature  disturbs  the  feebleness  of  our 
attention.  In  Plate  2,  a few  blades  of  common  green  grass, 
and  a wild  leaf  or  two — just  as  they  were  thrown  by  nature. 
— are  thus  abstracted  from  the  associated  redundance  of  the 
forms  about  them,  and  shown  on  a dark  ground  : every  cluster 
of  herbage  would  furnish  fifty  such  groups,  and  every  such 


IRON. , IN  NATURE , .ItfT7,  .4i\rD  POLICY. 


121 


group  would  work  into  iron  (fitting  it,  of  course,  rightly  to  its 
service)  with  perfect  ease,  and  endless  grandeur  of  result. 

III.  Iron  in  Policy. — Having  thus  obtained  some  idea  of 
the  use  of  iron  in  art,  as  dependent  on  its  ductility,  I need 
not,  certainly,  say  anything  of  its  uses  in  manufacture  and 
commerce  ; we  all  of  us  know  enough, — perhaps  a little  too 
much — about  them.  So  I pass  lastly  to  consider  its  uses  in 
policy ; dependent  chiefly  upon  its  tenacity — that  is  to  say, 
on  its  power  of  bearing  a pull,  and  receiving  an  edge.  These 
powers,  which  enable  it  to  pierce,  to  bind,  and  to  smite,  ren- 
der it  fit  for  the  three  great  instruments,  by  which  its  politi- 
cal action  may  be  simply  typified  ; namely,  the  Plough,  the 
Fetter,  and  the  Sword. 

On  our  understanding  the  right  use  of  these  three  instru- 
ments, depend,  of  course,  all  our  power  as  a nation,  and  all 
our  happiness  as  individuals. 

I.  The  Plough. — I say,  first,  on  our  understanding  the 
right  use  of  the  plough,  with  which,  in  justice  to  the  fairest 
of  our  labourers,  we  must  always  associate  that  feminine 
plough — the  needle.  The  first  requirement  for  the  happi- 
ness of  a nation  is  that  it  should  understand  the  function  in 
this  world  of  these  two  great  instruments  : a happy  nation 
may  be  defined  as  one  in  which  the  husband’s  hand  is  on  the 
plough,  and  the  housewife’s  on  the  needle ; so  in  due  time 
reaping  its  golden  harvest,  and  shining  in  golden  vesture  : 
and  an  unhappy  nation  is  one  which,  acknowledging  no  use 
of  plough  nor  needle,  will  assuredly  at  last  find  its  storehouse 
empty  in  the  famine,  and  its  breast  naked  to  the  cold. 

Perhaps  you  think  this  is  a mere  truism,  which  I am  wast- 
ing your  time  in  repeating.  I wish  it  were. 

By  far  the  greater  part  of  the  suffering  and  crime  which 
exist  at  this  moment  in  civilized  Europe,  arises  simply  from 
people  not  understanding  this  truism — not  knowing  that  prod- 
uce or  wealth  is  eternally  connected  by  the  laws  of  heaven 
and  earth  with  resolute  labour  ; but  hoping  in  some  way  to 
cheat  or  abrogate  this  everlasting  law  of  life,  and  to  feed 
where  they  have  not  furrowed,  and  be  warm  where  they  have 
not  woven. 


122 


THE  TWO  PATHS . 


I repeat,  nearly  all  onr  misery  and  crime  result  from  this 
one  misapprehension.  The  law  of  nature  is,  that  a certain 
quantity  of  work  is  necessary  to  produce  a certain  quantity  of 
good,  of  any  kind  whatever.  If  you  want  knowledge,  you 
must  toil  for  it : if  food,  you  must  toil  for  it ; and  if  pleasure, 
you  must  toil  for  it.  But  men  do  not  acknowledge  this  law, 
or  strive  to  evade  it,  hoping  to  get  their  knowledge,  and 
food,  and  pleasure  for  nothing  ; and  in  this  effort  they  either 
fail  of  getting  them,  and  remain  ignorant  and  miserable,  or 
they  obtain  them  by  making  other  men  work  for  their  bene- 
fit ; and  then  they  are  tyrants  and  robbers.  Yes,  and  worse 
than  robbers.  I am  not  one  who  in  the  least  doubts  or  dis- 
putes the  progress  of  this  century  in  many  things  useful  to 
mankind  ; but  it  seems  to  me  a very  dark  sign  respecting  us 
that  we  look  with  so  much  indifference  upon  dishonesty  and 
cruelty  in  the  pursuit  of  wealth.  In  the  dream  of  Nebuchad- 
nezzar it  was  only  the  feet  that  were  part  of  iron  and  part  of 
clay  ; but  many  of  us  are  now  getting  so  cruel  in  our  avarice, 
that  it  seems  as  if,  in  us,  the  heart  were  part  of  iron,  and  part 
of  clay. 

From  what  I have  heard  of  the  inhabitants  of  this  town,  I 
do  not  doubt  but  that  I may  be  permitted  to  do  here  what  I 
have  found  it  usually  thought  elsewhere  highly  improper  and 
absurd  to  do,  namely,  trace  a few  Bible  sentences  to  their 
practical  result. 

You  cannot  but  have  noticed  how  often  in  those  parts  of 
the  Bible  which  are  likely  to  be  oftenest  opened  when  people 
look  for  guidance,  comfort,  or  help  in  the  affairs  of  daily  life, 
namely,  the  Psalms  and  Proverbs,  mention  is  made  of  the 
guilt  attaching  to  the  Oppression  of  the  poor.  Observe  : not 
the  neglect  of  them,  but  the  Oppression  of  them  : the  word  is 
as  frequent  as  it  is  strange.  You  can  hardly  open  either  of 
those  books,  but  somewhere  in  their  pages  you  will  find  a de- 
scription of  the  wicked  man’s  attempts  against  the  poor  : such 
as — “ He  doth  ravish  the  poor  when  he  getteth  him  into  his 
net.” 

“ He  sitteth  in  the  lurking  places  of  the  villages ; his  eyes 
are  privily  set  against  the  poor.” 


IRON,  IN  NATURE , ART,  AND  POLICY.  123 

“In  his  pride  he  doth  persecute  the  poor,  and  blesseth  the 
covetous,  whom  God  abhorreth.” 

“ His  mouth  is  full  of  deceit  and  fraud  ; in  the  secret  places 
doth  he  murder  the  innocent.  Have  the  workers  of  iniquity 
no  knowledge,  who  eat  up  my  people  as  they  eat  bread  ? They 
have  drawn  out  the  sword,  and  bent  the  bow,  to  cast  down  the 
poor  and  needy.” 

“ They  are  corrupt,  and  speak  wickedly  concerning  oppres- 
sion.” 

“ Pride  compasseth  them  about  as  a chain,  and  violence  as 
a garment.” 

“ Their  poison  is  like  the  poison  of  a serpent.  Ye  weigh 
the  violence  of  your  hands  in  the  earth.” 

Yes:  “Ye  weigh  the  violence  of  your  hands  : weigh 

these  words  as  well.  The  last  things  we  ever  usually  think  of 
weighing  are  Bible  words.  We  like  to  dream  and  dispute 
over  them  ; but  to  weigh  them,  and  see  what  their  true  con- 
tents are— anything  but  that.  Yet,  weigh  these  ; for  I have 
purposely  taken  all  these  verses,  perhaps  more  striking  to  you 
read  in  this  connection,  than  separately  in  their  places,  out  of 
the  Psalms,  because,  for  all  people  belonging  to  the' Estab- 
lished Church  of  this  country  these  Psalms  are  appointed  les- 
sons, portioned  out  to  them  by  their  clergy  to  be  read  once 
through  every  month.  Presumably,  therefore,  whatever  por- 
tions of  Scripture  we  may  pass  by  or  forget,  these  at  all  events, 
must  be  brought  continually  to  our  observance  as  useful  for 
direction  of  daily  life.  Now,  do  we  ever  ask  ourselves  what 
the  real  meaning  of  these  passages  may  be,  and  who  these 
wicked  people  are,  who  are  “ murdering  the  innocent?  ” You 
know  it  is  rather  singular  language  this  !— rather  strong  lan- 
guage, we  might,  perhaps,  call  it— hearing  it  for  the  first  time. 
Murder!  and  murder  of  innocent  people  !— nay,  even  a sort  of 
cannibalism.  Eating  people,— yes,  and  God’s  people,  too- 
eating  My  people  as  if  they  were  bread  ! swords  drawn,  bows 
bent,  poison  of  serpents  mixed  ! violence  of  hands  weighed, 
measured,  and  trafficked  with  as  so  much  coin  ! where  is  all 
this  going  on  ? Do  you  suppose  it  was  only  going  on  in  the 
time  of  David,  and  that  nobody  but  Jews  ever  murder  the 


124 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


poor?  If  so,  it  would  surely  be  wiser  not  to  mutter  and 
mumble  for  our  daily  lessons  what  does  not  concern  us  ; but 
if  there  be  any  chance  that  it  may  concern  us,  and  if  this  de- 
scription, in  the  Psalms,  of  human  guilt  is  at  all  generally  ap- 
plicable, as  the  descriptions  in  the  Psalms  of  human  sorrow 
are,  may  it  not  be  advisable  to  know  wherein  this  guilt  is 
being  committed  round  about  us,  or  by  ourselves  ? and  when 
we  take  the  words  of  the  Bible  into  our  mouths  in  a congrega- 
tional way,  to  be  sure  whether  we  mean  merely  to  chant  a 
piece  of  melodious  poetry  relating  to  other  people— (we  know 
not  exactly  to  whom) — or  to  assert  our  belief  in  facts  bearing 
somewhat  stringently  on  ourselves  and  our  daily  business. 
And  if  you  make  up  your  minds  to  do  this  no  longer,  and 
take  pains  to  examine  into  the  matter,  you  will  find  that  these 
strange  words,  occurring  as  they  do,  not  in  a few  places  only, 
but  almost  in  every  alternate  psalm  and  every  alternate  chap- 
ter of  proverb,  or  prophecy,  with  tremendous  reiteration,  were 
not  written  for  one  nation  or  one  time  only  ; but  for  all  nations 
and  languages,  for  all  places  and  all  centuries  ; and  it  is  as 
true  of  the  wicked  man  now  as  ever  it  was  of  Nabal  or  Dives, 
that  “his  eyes  are  set  against  the  poor.” 

Set  against  the  poor,  mind  you.  Not  merely  set  away  from 
the  poor,  so  as  to  neglect  or  lose  sight  of  them,  but  set  against, 
so  as  to  afflict  and  destroy  them.  This  is  the  main  point  I 
•want  to  fix  your  attention  upon.  You  will  often  hear  sermons 
about  neglect  or  carelessness  of  the  poor.  But  neglect  and 
carelessness  are  not  at  all  the  points.  The  Bible  hardly  ever 
talks  about  neglect  of  the  poor.  It  always  talks  of  oppression 
of  the  poor — a very  different  matter.  It  does  not  merely 
speak  of  passing  by  on  the  other  side,  and  binding  up  no 
wounds,  but  of  drawing  the  sword  and  ourselves  smiting  the 
men  down.  It  does  not  charge  us  with  being  idle  in  the  pest- 
house,  and  giving  no  medicine,  but  with  being  busjr  in  the 
pest-house,  and  giving  much  poison. 

May  we  not  advisedly  look  into  this  matter  a little,  even  to- 
night, and  ask  first,  Who  are  these  poor  ? 

No  country  is,  or  ever  will  be,  without  them : that  is  to 
say,  without  the  class  which  cannot,  on  the  average,  do  more 


125 


IRON,  IN  NATURE , ART , AND  POLICY. 

by  its  labour  than  provide  for  its  subsistence,  and  which  has 
no  accumulations  of  property  laid  by  on  any  considerable 
scale.  Now  there  are  a certain  number  of  this  class  whom  we 
cannot  oppress  with  much  severity.  An  able-bodied  and  in- 
telligent workman— sober,  honest,  and  industrious,  will  almost 
always  command  a fair  price  for  his  work,  and  lay  by  enough 
in  a few  years  to  enable  him  to  hold  his  own  in  the  labour 
market.  But  all  men  are  not  able-bodied,  nor  intelligent,  nor 
industrious  ; and  you  cannot  expect  them  to  be.  Nothing 
appears  to  me  at  once  more  ludicrous  and  more  melancholy 
than  the  way  the  people  of  the  present  age  usually  talk  about 
the  morals  of  labourers.  You  hardly  ever  address  a labour- 
ing man  upon  his  prospects  in  life,  without  quietly  assuming 
that  he  is  to  possess,  at  starting,  as  a small  moral  capital  to 
begin  with,  the  virtue  of  Socrates,  the  philosophy  of  Plato, 
and  the  heroism  of  Epaminondas.  “Be  assured,  my  good 
man,  you  say  to  him,— “ that  if  you  work  steadily  for  ten 
hours  a day  all  your  life  long,  and  if  you  drink  nothing  but 
water,  or  the  very  mildest  beer,  and  live  on  very  plain  food, 
and  never  lose  your  temper,  and  go  to  church  every  Sunday’ 
and  always  remain  content  in  the  position  in  which  Provi- 
dence has  placed  you,  and  never  grumble  nor  swear ; and  al- 
ways keep  your  clothes  decent,  and  rise  early,  and  use  every 
opportunity  of  improving  yourself,  you  will  get  on  very  well, 
and  never  come  to  the  parish.” 

All  this  is  exceedingly  true ; but  before  giving  the  advice 
so  confidently,  it  would  be  well  if  we  sometimes  tried  it  prac- 
tically ourselves,  and  spent  a year  or  so  at  some  hard  manual 
labour,  not  of  an  entertaining  kind— ploughing  or  digging, 
for  instance,  with  a very  moderate  allowance  of  beer  ; nothing 
but  bread  and  cheese  for  dinner  ; no  papers  nor  muffins  in 
the  morning ; no  sofas  nor  magazines  at  night ; one  small 
room  for  parlour  and  kitchen  ; and  a large  family  of  children 
always  in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  If  we  think  we  could,  un- 
der these  circumstances,  enact  Socrates  or  Epaminondas  en- 
tirely to  our  own  satisfaction,  we  shall  be  somewhat  justified 
m requiring  the  same  behaviour  from  our  poorer  neighbours  ; 
but  if  not,  we  should  surely  consider  a little  whether  among 


126 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


the  various  forms  of  the  oppression  of  the  poor,  we  may  not 
rank  as  one  of  the  first  and  likeliest — the  oppression  of  ex- 
pecting too  much  from  them. 

But  let  this  pass  ; and  let  it  be  admitted  that  we  can  never 
be  guilty  of  oppression  towards  the  sober,  industrious,  intelli- 
gent, exemplary  labourer.  There  will  always  be  in  the  -world 
some  who  are  not  altogether  intelligent  and  exemplary  ; we 
shall,  I believe,  to  the  end  of  time  find  the  majority  somewhat 
unintelligent,  a little  inclined  to  be  idle,  and  occasionally,  on 
Saturday  night,  drunk  ; we  must  even  be  prepared  to  hear  of 
reprobates  who  like  skittles  on  Sunday  morning  better  than 
prayers ; and  of  unnatural  parents  who  send  their  children 
out  to  beg  instead  of  to  go  to  school. 

Now  these  are  the  kind  of  people  whom  you  can  oppress, 
and  whom  you  do  oppress,  and  that  to  purpose, — and  with 
all  the  more  cruelty  and  the  greater  sting,  because  it  is  just 
their  own  fault  that  puts  them  into  your  power.  You  know 
the  words  about  wicked  people  are,  “ He  doth  ravish  the  poor 
when  he  getteth  him  into  his  net.”  This  getting  into  the  net 
is  constantly  the  fault  or  folly  of  the  sufferer — his  own  heed- 
lessness or  his  own  indolence  ; but  after  he  is  once  in  the  net, 
the  oppression  of  him,  and  making  the  most  of  his  distress, 
are  ours.  The  nets  which  -we  use  against  the  poor  are  just 
those  worldly  embarrassments  which  either  their  ignorance 
or  their  improvidence  are  almost  certain  at  some  time  or 
other  to  bring  them  into  : then,  just  at  the  time  when  we 
ought  to  hasten  to  help  them,  and  disentangle  them,  and 
teach  them  how  to  manage  better  in  future,  we  rush  forward 
to  pillage  them,  and  force  all  we  can  out  of  them  in  their  ad- 
versity. For,  to  take  one  instance  only,  remember  this  is  liter- 
ally and  simply  what  we  do,  whenever  we  buy,  or  try  to  buy, 
cheap  goods — goods  offered  at  a price  which  we  know  cannot 
be  remunerative  for  the  labour  involved  in  them.  "Whenever 
we  buy  such  goods,  remember  we  are  stealing  somebody’s 
labour.  Don’t  let  us  mince  the  matter.  I say,  in  plain  Saxon, 
stealing — taking  from  him  the  proper  reward  of  his  work,  and 
putting  it  into  our  own  pocket.  You  know  well  enough  that 
the  thing  could  not  have  been  offered  you  at  that  price,  un- 


IRON , IN  NATURE , ^LWZ)  POLICY. 


127 


less  distress  of  some  kind  had  forced  the  producer  to  part 
with  it.  You  take  advantage  of  this  distress,  and  you  force 
as  much  out  of  him  as  you  can  under  the  circumstances.  The 
old  barons  of  the  middle  ages  used,  in  general,  the  thumb- 
screw to  extort  property  ; we  moderns  use,  in  preference,  hun- 
ger or  domestic  affliction  : but  the  fact  of  extortion  remains 
precisely  the  same.  Whether  we  force  the  man’s  property 
from  him  by  pinching  his  stomach,  or  pinching  his  fingers, 
makes  some  difference  anatomically  ; — morally,  none  whatso- 
ever : we  use  a form  of  torture  of  some  sort  in  order  to  make 
him  give  up  his  property  ; we  use,  indeed,  the  man’s  own 
anxieties,  instead  of  the  rack  ; and  his  immediate  peril  of 
staivation,  instead  of  the  pistol  at  the  head ; but  otherwise 
we  differ  from  Front  de  Bceuf,  or  Dick  Turpin,  merely  in  be- 
ing less  dexterous,  more  cowardly,  and  more  cruel.  More 
cruel,  I say,  because  the  fierce  baron  and  the  redoubted  high- 
wayman are  reported  to  have  robbed,  at  least  by  preference, 
only  the  rich ; we  steal  habitually  from  the  poor.  We  buy 
our  liveries,  and  gild  our  prayer-books,  with  pilfered  pence 
out  of  children’s  and  sick  men’s  wages,  and  thus  ingeniously 
dispose  a given  quantity  of  Theft,  so  that  it  may  produce  the 
largest  possible  measure  of  delicately  distributed  suffering. 

But  this  is  only  one  form  of  common  oppression  of  the  poor 
—only  one  way  of  taking  our  hands  off  the  plough  handle, 
and  binding  another’s  upon  it.  This  first  way  of  doing 
it  is  the  economical  way— the  way  preferred  by  prudent  and 
virtuous  people.  The  bolder  way  is  the  acquisitive  way  : — the 
way  of  speculation.  You  know  we  are  considering  at  present 
the  various  modes  in  which  a nation  corrupts  itself,  by  not 
acknowledging  the  eternal  connection  between  its  plough  and 
its  pleasure  ; — by  striving  to  get  pleasure,  without  working 
for  it.  Well,  I say  the  first  and  commonest  way  of  doing  so 
is  to  try  to  get  the  product  of  other  people’s  work,  and  enjoy 
it  ourselves,  by  cheapening  their  labour  in  times  of  distress : 
then  the  second  way  is  that  grand  one  of  watching  the  chances 
of  the  market ; the  way  of  speculation.  Of  course  there  are 
some  speculations  that  are  fair  and  honest— speculations  made 
with  our  own  money,  and  which  do  not  involve  in  their  sue- 


128 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


cess  the  loss,  by  others,  of  what  we  gain.  But  generally  mod- 
em speculation  involves  much  risk  to  others,  with  chance  of 
profit  only  to  ourselves  : even  in  its  best  conditions  it  is  merely 
one  of  the  forms  of  gambling  or  treasure  hunting ; it  is  either 
leaving  the  steady  plough  and  the  steady  pilgrimage  of  life,  to 
look  for  silver  mines  beside  the  way ; or  else  it  is  the  full  stop 
beside  the  dice-tables  in  Vanity  Fair — investing  all  the  thoughts 
and  passions  of  the  soul  in  the  fall  of  the  cards,  and  choosing 
rather  the  wild  accidents  of  idle  fortune  than  the  calm  and 
accumulative  rewards  of  toiL  And  this  is  destructive  enough, 
at  least  to  our  peace  and  virtue.  But  is  usually  destructive 
of  far  more  than  our  peace,  or  our  virtue.  Have  you  ever  de- 
liberately set  yourselves  to  imagine  and  measure  the  suffering, 
the  guilt,  and  the  mortality  caused  necessarily  by  the  failure 
of  any  large-dealing  merchant,  or  largely-branched  bank? 
Take  it  at  the  lowest  possible  supposition — count,  at  the  few- 
est you  choose,  the  families  whose  means  of  support  have 
been  involved  in  the  catastrophe.  Then,  on  the  morning 
after  the  intelligence  of  ruin,  let  us  go  forth  amongst  them  in 
earnest  thought ; let  us  use  that  imagination  which  we  waste 
so  often  on  fictitious  sorrow,  to  measure  the  stern  facts  of  that 
multitudinous  distress  ; strike  open  the  private  doors  of  their 
chambers,  and  enter  silently  into  the  midst  of  the  domestic 
misery ; look  upon  the  old  men,  who  had  reserved  for  their 
failing  strength  some  remainder  of  rest  in  the  evening-tide  of 
life,  cast  helplessly  back  into  its  trouble  and  tumult ; look 
upon  the  active  strength  of  middle  age  suddenly  blasted  into 
incapacity — its  hopes  crushed,  and  its  hardly  earned  rewards 
snatched  away  in  the  same  instant — at  once  the  heart  with- 
ered, and  the  right  arm  snapped  ; look  upon  the  piteous  chil- 
dren, delicately  nurtured,  whose  soft  eyes,  now  large  with 
wonder  at  their  parents’  grief,  must  soon  be  set  in  the  dimness 
of  famine  ; and,  far  more  than  all  this,  look  forward  to  the 
length  of  sorrow  beyond — to  the  hardest  labour  of  life,  now 
to  be  undergone  either  in  all  the  severity  of  unexpected  and 
inexperienced  trial,  or  else,  more  bitter  still,  to  be  begun 
again,  and  endured  for  the  second  time,  amidst  the  ruins  of 
cherished  hopes  and  the  feebleness  of  advancing  years,  ein- 


IRON \ IN  NATURE , ART,  AND  POLICY . 


129 


bittered  by  the  continual  sting  and  taunt  of  the  inner  feeling 
that  it  has  all  been  brought  about,  not  by  the  fair  course  of 
appointed  circumstance,  but  by  miserable  chance  and  wanton 
treachery  ; and,  last  of  all,  look  beyond  this— to  the  shattered 
destinies  of  those  who  have  faltered  under  the  trial,  and  sunk 
past  recovery  to  despair.  And  then  consider  whether  the 
hand  which  has  poured  this  poison  into  all  the  springs  of  life 
be  one  whit  less  guiltily  red  with  human  blood  than  that 
which  literally  pours  the  hemlock  into  the  cup,  or  guides  the 
dagger  to  the  heart?  We  read  with  horror  of  the  crimes  of  a 
Borgia  or  a Tophana  ; but  there  never  lived  Borgias  such  as 
live  now  in  the  midst  of  us.  The  cruel  lady  of  Ferrara  slew 
only  in  the  strength  of  passion— she  slew  only  a few,  those 
who  thwarted  her  purposes  or  who  vexed  her  soul ; she  slew 
sharply  and  suddenly,  embittering  the  fate  of  her  victims  with 
no  foretastes  of  destruction,  no  prolongations  of  pain  ; and, 
finally  and  chiefly,  she  slew,  not  without  remorse,  nor  without 
pity.  But  we,  in  no  storm  of  passion — in  no  blindness  of 
wrath, — we,  in  calm  and  clear  and  untempted  selfishness,  pour 
our  poison— not  for  a few  only,  but  for  multitudes  ; — not  for 
those  who  have  wronged  us,  or  resisted, — but  for  those  who 
have  trusted  us  and  aided  we,  not  with  sudden  gift  of  mer- 
ciful and  unconscious  death,  but  with  slow  waste  of  hunger 
and  weary  rack  of  disappointment  and  despair  ;— we,  last  and 
chiefly,  do  our  murdering,  not  with  any  pauses  of  pity  or 
scorching  of  conscience,  but  in  facile  and  forgetful  calm  of 
mind — and  so,  forsooth,  read  day  by  day,  complacently,  as  if 
they  meant  any  one  else  than  ourselves,  the  words  that  for- 
ever describe  the  wicked  : “ The  poison  of  asps  is  under  their 
lips,  and  their  feet  are  swift  to  shed  blood.” 

You  may  indeed,  perhaps,  think  there  is  some  excuse  for 
many  in  this  matter,  just  because  the  sin  is  so  unconscious  ; 
that  the  guilt  is  not  so  great  when  it  is  unapprehended,  and 
that  it  is  much  more  pardonable  to  slay  heedlessly  than  pur- 
posefully. I believe  no  feeling  can  be  more  mistaken,  and 
that  in  reality,  and  in  the  sight  of  heaven  j the  callous  indiffer- 
ence which  pursues  its  own  interests  at  any  cost  of  life, 
though  it  does  not  definitely  adopt  the  purpose  of  sin,  is  a 


130 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


state  of  mind  at  once  more  heinous  and  more  hopeless  than 
the  wildest  aberrations  of  ungoverned  passion.  There  may 
be,  in  the  last  case,  some  elements  of  good  and  of  redemption 
still  mingled  in  the  character ; but,  in  the  other,  few  or  none. 
There  may  be  hope  for  the  man  who  has  slain  his  enemy  in 
anger  ; hope  even  for  the  man  who  has  betrayed  his  friend  in 
fear  ; but  what  hope  for  him  who  trades  in  unregarded  blood, 
and  builds  his  fortune  on  unrepented  treason  ? 

But,  however  this  may  be,  and  wdierever  you  may  think 
yourselves  bound  in  justice  to  impute  the  greater  sin,  be  as- 
sured that  the  question  is  one  of  responsibilities  only,  not  of 
facts.  The  definite  result  of  all  our  modern  haste  to  be  rich 
is  assuredly,  and  constantly,  the  murder  of  a certain  number 
of  persons  by  our  hands  every  year.  I have  not  time  to  go 
into  the  details  of  another — on  the  whole,  the  broadest  and 
terriblest  way  in  which  we  cause  the  destruction  of  the  poor — 
namely,  the  way  of  luxury  and  waste,  destroying,  in  improvi- 
dence, what  might  have  been  the  support  of  thousands ; * but 
if  you  follow  out  the  subject  for  yourselves  at  home — and 
what  I have  endeavoured  to  lay  before  you  to-night  will  only 
be  useful  to  you  if  you  do — you  will  find  that  wherever  and 
whenever  men  are  endeavouring  to  make  money  hastily , and  to 
avoid  the  labour  which  Providence  has  appointed  to  be  the 
only  source  of  honourable  profit ; — and  also  wherever  and 
whenever  they  permit  themselves  to  spend  it  luxuriously , 
without  reflecting  how  far  they  are  misguiding  the  labour  of 
others  ; — there  and  then,  in  either  case,  they  are  literally  and 
infallibly  causing,  for  their  own  benefit  or  their  own  pleasure, 
a certain  annual  number  of  human  deaths ; that,  therefore, 

* The  analysis  of  this  error  will  be  found  completely  carried  out  in 
my  lectures  on  the  political  economy  of  art.  And  it  is  an  error  worth 
analyzing  ; for  until  it  is  finally  trodden  under  foot,  no  healthy  political, 
economical,  or  moral  action  is  possible  in  any  state.  I do  not  say  this 
impetuously  or  suddenly,  for  I have  investigated  this  subject  as  deeply, 
and  as  long,  as  my  own  special  subject  of  art;  and  the  principles  of 
political  economy  which  I have  stated  in  those  lectures  are  as  sure  as 
the  principles  of  Euclid.  Foolish  readers  doubted  their  certainty,  be- 
cause I told  them  I had  “ never  read  any  books  on  Political  Economy.” 
Did  they  suppose  I had  got  my  knowledge  of  art  by  reading  books  ? 


IRON,  IN  NATURE , ART,  AND  POLICY. 


131 


the  choice  given  to  every  man  born  into  this  world  is,  simply, 
whether  he  will  be  a labourer,  or  an  assassin  ; and  that  who- 
soever has  not  his  hand  on  the  Stilt  of  the  plough,  has  it  on 
the  Hilt  of  the  dagger. 

It  would  also  be  quite  vain  for  me  to  endeavour  to  follow 
out  this  evening  the  lines  of  thought  which  would  be  sug- 
gested by  the  other  two  great  political  uses  of  iron  in  the 
Fetter  and  the  Sword  : a few  words  only  I must  permit  my- 
self respecting  both. 

2.  The  Fetter. — As  the  plough  is  the  typical  instrument  of 
industry,  so  the  fetter  is  the  typical  instrument  of  the  restraint 
or  subjection  necessary  in  a nation — either  literally,  for  its 
evil-doers,  or  figuratively,  in  accepted  laws,  for  its  wise  and 
good  men.  You  have  to  choose  between  this  figurative  and 
literal  use  ; for  depend  upon  it,  the  more  laws  you  accept,  the 
fewer  penalties  you  will  have  to  endure,  and  the  fewer  punish- 
ments to  enforce.  For  wise  laws  and  just  restraints  are  to  a 
noble  nation  not  chains,  but  chain  mail — strength  and  defence, 
though  something  also  of  an  incumbrance.  And  this  neces- 
sity of  restraint,  remember,  is  just  as  honourable  to  man  as 
the  necessity  of  labour.  You  hear  every  day  greater  numbers 
of  foolish  people  speaking  about  liberty,  as  if  it  were  such  an 
honourable  thing  : so  far  from  being  that,  it  is,  on  the  whole, 
and  in  the  broadest  sense,  dishonourable,  and  an  attribute  of 
the  lower  creatures.  No  human  being,  however  great  or 
powerful,  was  ever  so  free  as  a fish.  There  is  always  some- 
thing that  he  must,  or  must  not  do  ; while  the  fish  may  do 
whatever  he  likes.  All  the  kingdoms  of  the  world  put  to- 
gether are  not  half  so  large  as  the  sea,  and  all  the  railroads 
and  wheels  that  ever  were,  or  will  be,  invented  are  not  so 
easy  as  fins.  You  will  find,  on  fairly  thinking  of  it,  that  it  is 
his  Restraint  which  is  honourable  to  man,  not  his  Liberty  ; 
and,  what  is  more,  it  is  restraint  which  is  honourable  even  in 
the  lower  animals.  A butterfly  is  much  more  free  than  a 
bee  ; but  you  honour  the  bee  more,  just  because  it  is  subject 
to  certain  laws  which  fit  it  for  orderly  function  in  bee  society. 
And  throughout  the  world,  of  the  two  abstract  things,  liberty 
and  restraint,  restraint  is  always  the  more  honourable.  It  is 


132 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


true,  indeed,  that  in  these  and  all  other  matters  you  never 
can  reason  finally  from  the  abstraction,  for  both  liberty  and 
restraint  are  good  when  they  are  nobly  chosen,  and  both  are 
bad  when  they  are  basely  chosen  ; but  of  the  two,  I repeat,  it 
is  restraint  which  characterizes  the  higher  creature,  and  betters 
the  lower  creature : and,  from  the  ministering  of  the  arch- 
angel to  the  labour  of  the  insect, — from  the  poising  of  the 
planets  to  the  gravitation  of  a grain  of  dust, — the  power  and 
glory  of  all  creatures,  and  all  matter,  consist  in  their  obedience, 
not  in  their  freedom.  The  Sun  has  no  liberty — a dead  leaf 
has  much.  The  dust  of  which  you  are  formed  has  no  liberty. 
Its  liberty  will  come — with  its  corruption. 

And,  therefore,  I say  boldly,  though  it  seems  a strange 
thing  to  say  in  England,  that  as  the  first  power  of  a nation 
consists  in  knowing  how  to  guide  the  Plough,  its  second  pow- 
er consists  in  knowing  how  to  wear  the  Fetter  : — 

3.  The  Sword. — And  its  third  power,  which  perfects  it  as  a 
nation,  consist  in  knowing  how  to  wield  the  sword,  so  that 
the  three  talismans  of  national  existence  are  expressed  in  these 
three  short  words — Labour,  Law,  and  Courage. 

This  last  virtue  we  at  least  possess ; and  all  that  is  to  be 
alleged  against  us  is  that  we  do  not  honour  it  enough.  I do 
not  mean  honour  by  acknowledgment  of  service,  though  some- 
times we  are  slow  in  doing  even  that.  But  we  do  not  honour 
it  enough  in  consistent  regard  to  the  lives  and  souls  of  our 
soldiers.  How  wantonly  we  have  wasted  their  lives  you  have 
seen  lately  in  the  reports  of  their  mortality  by  disease,  which 
a little  care  and  science  might  have  prevented  ; but  we  regard 
their  souls  less  than  their  lives,  by  keeping  them  in  ignorance 
and  idleness,  and  regarding  them  merely  as  instruments  of 
battle.  The  argument  brought  forward  for  the  maintenance 
of  a standing  army  usually  refers  only  to  expediency  in  the 
case  of  unexpected  war,  whereas,  one  of  the  chief  reasons  for 
the  maintenance  of  an  army  is  the  advantage  of  the  military 
system  as  a method  of  education.  The  most  fiery  and  head- 
strong, who  are  often  also  the  most  gifted  and  generous  of 
your  youths,  have  always  a tendency  both  in  the  lower  and 
upper  classes  to  offer  themselves  for  your  soldiers  : others, 


IRON \ IN  NATURE , ART, \ AND  POLICY. 


133 


weak  and  unserviceable  in  a civil  capacity,  are  tempted  or  en- 
trapped into  the  army  in  a fortunate  hour  for  them  : out  of 
this  fiery  or  uncouth  material,  it  is  only  a soldier’s  discipline 
which  can  bring  the  full  value  and  power.  Even  at  present, 
by  mere  force  of  order  and  authority,  the  army  is  the  salva- 
tion of  myriads  ; and  men  who,  under  other  circumstances, 
would  have  sunk  into  lethargy  or  dissipation,  are  redeemed 
into  noble  life  by  a service  which  at  once  summons  and  directs 
their  energies.  How  much  more  than  this  military  education 
is  capable  of  doing,  you  will  find  only  when  you  make  it  edu- 
cation indeed.  We  have  no  excuse  for  leaving  our  private 
soldiers  at  their  present  level  of  ignorance  and  want  of  refine- 
ment, for  we  shall  invariably  find  that,  both  among  officers 
and  men,  the  gentlest  and  best  informed  are  the  bravest ; still 
less  have  we  excuse  for  diminishing  our  army,  either  in  the 
present  state  of  political  events,  or,  as  I believe,  in  any  other 
conjunction  of  them  that  for  many  a year  will  be  possible  in 
this  world. 

You  may,  perhaps,  be  surprised  at  my  saying  this  ; perhaps 
surprised  at  my  implying  that  war  itself  can  be  right,  or  nec- 
essary, or  noble  at  all.  Nor  do  I speak  of  all  war  as  neces- 
sary, nor  of  all  war  as  noble.  Both  peace  and  war  are  noble 
or  ignoble  according  to  their  kind  and  occasion.  No  man  has 
a profounder  sense  of  the  horror  and  guilt  of  ignoble  war  than 
I have  : I have  personally  seen  its  effects,  upon  nations,  of  un- 
mitigated evil,  on  soul  and  body,  with  perhaps  as  much  pity, 
and  as  much  bitterness  of  indignation,  as  any  of  those  whom 
you  will  hear  continually  declaiming  in  the  cause  of  peace. 
But  peace  may  be  sought  in  two  ways.  One  way  is  as  Gideon 
sought  it,  when  he  built  his  altar  in  Ophrah,  naming  it,  “ God 
send  peace,”  yet  sought  this  peace  that  he  loved,  as  he  was 
ordered  to  seek  it,  and  the  peace  was  sent,  in  God’s  way  : — 
“the  country  was  in  quietness  forty  years  in  the  days  of 
Gideon.  And  the  other  way  of  seeking  peace  is  as  Menahem 
sought  it  when  he  gave  the  King  of  Assyria  a thousand  talents 
of  silver,  that  “his  hand  might  be  with  him.”  That  is,  you 
may  either  win  your  peace,  or  buy  it win  it,  by  resistance 
to  evil buy  it,  by  compromise  with  evil.  You  may  buy 


134 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


your  peace,  with  silenced  consciences  ; — you  may  buy  it,  with 
broken  vows, — buy  it,  with  lying  words,— buy  it,  with  base 
connivances, — buy  it,  with  the  blood  of  the  slain,  and  the  cry 
of  the  captive,  and  the  silence  of  lost  souls — over  hemi- 
spheres of  the  earth,  while  you  sit  smiling  at  your  serene 
hearths,  lisping  comfortable  prayers  evening  and  morning, 
and  counting  your  pretty  Protestant  beads  (which  are  flat,  and 
of  gold,  instead  of  round,  and  of  ebony,  as  the  monks’  ones 
were),  and  so  mutter  continually  to  yourselves,  “Peace, 
peace,”  when  there  is  No  peace  ; but  only  captivity  and  death, 
for  you,  as  well  as  for  those  you  leave  unsaved ; — and  yours 
darker  than  theirs. 

I cannot  utter  to  you  what  I would  in  this  matter  ; we  all 
see  too  dimly,  as  yet,  what  our  great  world-duties  are,  to  allow 
any  of  us  to  try  to  outline  their  enlarging  shadows.  But  think 
over  what  I have  said,  and  as  you  return  to  your  quiet  homes 
to-night,  reflect  that  their  peace  was  not  won  for  you  by  your 
own  hands  ; but  by  theirs  who  long  ago  jeoparded  their  lives 
for  you,  their  children  ; and  remember  that  neither  this  in- 
herited peace,  nor  any  other,  can  be  kept,  but  through  the 
same  jeopardy.  No  peace  was  ever  won  from  Fate  by  subter- 
fuge or  agreement ; no  peace  is  ever  in  store  for  any  of  us,  but 
that  which  we  shall  win  by  victory  over  shame  or  sin  ; — vic- 
tory over  the  sin  that  oppresses,  as  well  as  over  that  which 
corrupts.  For  many  a year  to  come,  the  sword  of  every  right- 
eous nation  must  be  whetted  to  save  or  subdue  ; nor  will  it 
be  by  patience  of  others’  suffering,  but  by  the  offering  of  your 
own,  that  you  ever  will  draw  nearer  to  the  time  when  the 
great  change  shall  pass  upon  the  iron  of  the  earth  ; — when 
men  shall  beat  their  swords  into  ploughshares,  and  their 
spears  into  pruning-hooks  ; neither  shall  they  learn  war  any 
more. 


APPENDICES. 


APPENDIX  I 

BIGHT  AND  WRONG. 

Keadkrs  who  are  using  my  Elements  of  Drawing  may  be  sur 
prised  by  my  saying  here  that  Tintoret  may  lead  them  wrong  : 
while  in  the  Elements  he  is  one  of  the  six  men  named  as  be- 
ing  “always  right.” 

I bring  the  apparent  inconsistency  forward  at  the  begin- 
ning of  this  Appendix,  because  the  illustration  of  it  will  be 
farther  useful  in  showing  the  real  nature  of  the  self-contra- 
diction which  is  often  alleged  against  me  by  careless  readers. 

It  is  not  only  possible,  but  a frequent  condition  of  human 
action,  to  do  right  and  be  right— yet  so  as  to  mislead  other 
people  if  they  rashly  imitate  the  thing  done.  For  there  are 

many  rights  which  are  not  absolutely,  but  relatively  right 

right  only  for  that  person  to  do  under  those  circumstances, 

not  for  this  person  to  do  under  other  circumstances. 

Thus  it  stands  between  Titian  and  Tintoret.  Titian  is  al- 
ways absolutely  Eight.  You  may  imitate  him  with  entire 
security  that  you  are  doing  the  best  thing  that  can  possibly 
be  done  for  the  purpose  in  hand.  Tintoret  is  always  rela- 
tively Eight — relatively  to  his  own  aims  and  peculiar  powers. 
But  you  must  quite  understand  Tintoret  before  you  can  be 
sure  what  his  aim  was,  and  why  he  was  then  right  in  doing 
what  would  not  be  right  always.  If,  however,  you  take  the 
pains  thus  to  understand  him,  he  becomes  entirely  instructive 
and  exemplary,  just  as  Titian  is  ; and  therefore  I have  placed 
him  among  those  are  “ always  right,”  and  you  can  only  study 
him  rightly  with  that  reverence  for  him. 


136 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


Then  the  artists  who  are  named  as  “ admitting  question  of 
right  and  wrong,”  are  those  who  from  some  mischance  of  cir- 
cumstance or  short-coming  in  their  education,  do  not  always 
do  right,  even  with  relation  to  their  own  aims  and  powers. 

Take  for  example  the  quality  of  imperfection  in  drawing 
form.  There  are  many  pictures  of  Tintoret  in  which  the  trees 
are  drawn  with  a few  curved  flourishes  of  the  brush  instead 
of  leaves.  That  is  (absolutely)  wrong.  If  you  copied  the  tree 
as  a model,  you  would  be  going  very  wrong  indeed.  But  it 
is  relatively,  and  for  Tintoret’s  purposes,  right.  In  the  nature 
of  the  superficial  work  you  will  find  there  must  have  been  a 
cause  for  it  Somebody  perhaps  wanted  the  picture  in  a 
hurry  to  fill  a dark  comer.  Tintoret  good-naturedly  did  all 
he  could — painted  the  figures  tolerably — had  five  minutes  left 
only  for  the  trees,  when  the  servant  came.  “ Let  him  wait 
another  five  minutes.”  And  this  is  the  best  foliage  we  can  do 
in  the  time.  Entirely,  admirably,  unsurpassably  right,  under 
the  conditions.  Titian  would  not  have  worked  under  them, 
but  Tintoret  was  kinder  and  humbler ; yet  he  may  lead  you 
wrong  if  you  don’t  understand  him.  Or,  perhaps,  another 
day,  somebody  came  in  while  Tintoret  was  at  work,  who  tor- 
mented Tintoret  An  ignoble  person ! Titian  would  have 
have  been  polite  to  him,  and  gone  on  steadily  with  his  trees. 
Tintoret  cannot  stand  the  ignobleness  ; it  is  unendurably  re- 
pulsive and  discomfiting  to  him.  “ The  Black  Plague  take 
him — and  the  trees,  too  ! Shall  such  a fellow  see  me  paint ! ” 
And  the  trees  go  all  to  pieces.  This,  in  you,  would  be  mere 
ill-breeding  and  ill-temper.  In  Tintoret  it  was  one  of  the 
necessary  conditions  of  his  intense  sensibility ; had  he  been 
capable,  then,  of  keeping  his  temper,  he  could  never  have 
done  his  greatest  works.  Let  the  trees  go  to  pieces,  by  all 
means  ; it  is  quite  right  they  should  ; he  is  always  right. 

But  in  a background  of  Gainsborough  you  would  find  the 
trees  unjustifiably  gone  to  pieces.  The  carelessness  of  form 
there  is  definitely  purposed  by  him  ; — adopted  as  an  advisable 
thing  ; and  therefore  it  is  both  absolutely  and  relatively 
wrong  ; — it  indicates  his  being  imperfectly  educated  as  a 
painter,  and  not  having  brought  out  all  his  powers.  It  may 


APPENDICES, 


137 


still  happen  that  the  man  whose  work  thus  partially  errone- 
ous is  greater  far,  than  others  who  have  fewer  faults.  Gains- 
borough’s and  Reynolds’  wrongs  are  more  charming  than  al- 
most anybody  else’s  right.  Still,  they  occasionally  are  wrong 
— but  the  Venetians  and  Velasquez,*  never. 

I ought,  perhaps,  to  have  added  in  that  Manchester  address 
(only  one  does  not  like  to  say  things  that  shock  people)  some 
words  of  warning  against  painters  likely  to  mislead  the  stu- 
dent. For  indeed,  though  here  and  there  something  may  be 
gained  by  looking  at  inferior  men,  there  is  always  more  to  be 
gained  by  looking  at  the  best ; and  there  is  not  time,  with  all 
the  looking  of  human  life,  to  exhaust  even  one  great  painter’s 
instruction.  How  then  shall  we  dare  to  waste  our  sight  and 
thoughts  on  inferior  ones,  even  if  we  could  do  so,  which  we 
rarely  can,  without  danger  of  being  led  astray  ? Nay,  strictly 
speaking,  what  people  call  inferior  painters  are  in  general  no 
painters.  Artists  are  divided  by  an  impassable  gulf  into  the 
men  who  can  paint,  and  who  cannot.  The  men  who  can  paint 
often  fall  short  of  what  they  should  have  done ; — are  repressed, 
or  defeated,  or  otherwise  rendered  inferior  one  to  another: 
still  there  is  an  everlasting  barrier  between  them  and  the  men 
who  cannot  paint — who  can  only  in  various  popular  ways  pre- 
tend to  paint.  And  if  once  you  know  the  difference,  there  is 
always  some  good  to  be  got  by  looking  at  a real  painter — 
seldom  anything  but  mischief  to  be  got  out  of  a false  one  ; 
but  do  not  suppose  real  painters  are  common.  I do  not  speak 
of  living  men ; but  among  those  who  labour  no  more,  in  this 
England  of  ours,  since  it  first  had  a school,  we  have  had  only 
five  real  painters Reynolds,  Gainsborough,  Hogarth,  Rich- 
ard Wilson,  and  Turner. 

The  reader  may,  perhaps,  think  I have  forgotten  Wilkie. 
No.  I once  much  overrated  him  as  an  expressional  draughts- 
man, not  having  then  studied  the  figure  long  enough  to  be 
able  to  detect  superficial  sentiment.  But  his  colour  I have 
never  praised ; it  is  entirely  false  and  valueless.  And  it  would 
be  unjust  to  English  art  if  I did  not  here  express  my  regret 

* At  least  after  his  style  was  formed  ; early  pictures,  like  the  Adora- 
tion of  the  Magi  in  our  Gallery,  are  of  little  value. 


138 


THE  TWO  PATHS, [ 


that  the  admiration  of  Constable,  already  harmful  enough  in 
England,  is  extending  even  into  France.  There  was,  perhaps, 
the  making,  in  Constable,  of  a second  or  third-rate  painter,  if 
any  careful  discipline  had  developed  in  him  the  instincts 
which,  though  unparalleled  for  narrowness,  were,  as  far  as 
they  went,  true.  But  as  it  is,  he  is  nothing  more  than  an 
industrious  and  innocent  amateur  blundering  his  way  to  a 
superficial  expression  of  one  or  two  popular  aspects  of  com- 
mon nature. 

And  my  readers  may  depend  upon  it,  that  all  blame  which 
I express  in  this  sweeping  way  is  trustworthy.  I have  often 
had  to  repent  of  over-praise  of  inferior  men  ; and  continually 
to  repent  of  insufficient  praise  of  great  men  ; but  of  broad 
condemnation,  never.  For  I do  not  speak  it  but  after  the 
most  searching  examination  of  the  matter,  and  under  stern 
sense  of  need  for  it : so  that  whenever  the  reader  is  entirely 
shocked  by  what  I say,  he  may  be  assured  every  word  is  true.* 
It  is  just  because  it  so  much  offends  him,  that  it  was  neces- 
sary : and  knowing  that  it  must  offend  him,  I should  not  have 
ventured  to  say  it,  without  certainty  of  its  truth.  I say  “ cer- 
tainty,” for  it  is  just  as  possible  to  be  certain  whether  the 
drawing  of  a tree  or  a stone  is  true  or  false,  as  whether  the 
drawing  of  a triangle  is  ; and  what  I mean  primarily  by  say- 
ing that  a picture  is  in  all  respects  worthless,  is  that  it  is  in 
all  respects  False : which  is  not  a matter  of  opinion  at  all,  but 
a matter  of  ascertainable  fact,  such  as  I never  assert  till  I have 
ascertained.  And  the  thing  so  commonly  said  about  my  writ- 
ings, that  they  are  rather  persuasive  than  just;  and  that  though 
my  ‘‘language”  may  be  good,  I am  an  unsafe  guide  in  art 
criticism,  is,  like  many  other  popular  estimates  in  such  mat- 
ters, not  merely  untrue,  but  precisely  the  reverse  of  the  truth  ; 
it  is  truth,  like  reflections  in  water,  distorted  much  by  the 
shaking  receptive  surface,  and  in  every  particular,  upside 

* He  must,  however,  he  careful  to  distinguish  hlame — however  strongly 
expressed,  of  some  special  fault  or  error  in  a true  painter, — from  these 
general  statements  of  inferiority  or  worthlessness.  Thus  he  will  find 
me  continually  laughing  at  Wilson’s  tree -painting ; not  because  Wilson 
could  not  paint,  but  because  he  had  never  looked  at  a tree. 


APPENDICES. 


139 


down.  For  my  ‘‘language,”  until  within  the  last  six  or  seven 
years,  was  loose,  obscure,  and  more  or  less  feeble  ; and  still, 
though  I have  tried  hard  to  mend  it,  the  best  I can  do  is  in- 
ferior to  much  contemporary  work.  No  description  that  I 
have  ever  given  of  anything  is  worth  four  lines  of  Tennyson  ; 
and  in  serious  thought,  my  half-pages  are  generally  only 
worth  about  as  much  as  a single  sentence  either  of  his,  or  of 
Carlyle’s.  They  are,  I well  trust,  as  true  and  necessary  ; but 
they  are  neither  so  concentrated  nor  so  well  put.  But  I am 
an  entirely  safe  guide  in  art  judgment : and  that  simply  as  the 
necessary  result  of  my  having  given  the  labour  of  life  to  the 
determination  of  facts,  rather  than  to  the  following  of  feelings 
or  theories.  Not,  indeed,  that  my  work  is  free  from  mistakes ; 
it  admits  many,  and  always  must  admit  many,  from  its  scat- 
tered range ; but,  in  the  long  run,  it  will  be  found  to  enter 
sternly  and  searchingly  into  the  nature  of  what  it  deals  with, 
and  the  kind  of  mistake  it  admits  is  never  dangerous,  consist- 
ing, usually,  in  pressing  the  truth  too  far.  It  is  quite  easy, 
for  instance,  to  take  an  accidental  irregularity  in  a piece  of 
architecture,  which  less  careful  examination  would  never  have 
detected  at  all,  for  an  intentional  irregularity  ; quite  possible 
to  misinterpret  an  obscure  passage  in  a picture,  which  a less 
earnest  observer  would  never  have  tried  to  interpret.  But 
mistakes  of  this  kind— honest,  enthusiastic  mistakes— are 
never  harmful ; because  they  are  always  made  in  a true  direc- 
tion,—falls  forward  on  the  road,  not  into  the  ditch  beside  it ; 
and  they  are  sure  to  be  corrected  by  the  next  comer.  But 
the  blunt  and  dead  mistakes  made  by  too  many  other  writers 
on  art — the  mistakes  of  sheer  inattention,  and  want  of  sym- 
pathy— are  mortal.  The  entire  purpose  of  a great  thinker 
may  be  difficult  to  fathom,  and  we  may  be  over  and  over  again 
more  or  less  mistaken  in  guessing  at  his  meaning ; but  the 
real,  profound,  nay,  quite  bottomless,  and  unredeemable  mis- 
take, is  the  fool’s  thought — that  he  had  no  meaning. 

I do  not  refer,  in  saying  this,  to  any  of  my  statements  re- 
specting subjects  which  it  has  been  my  main  work  to  study  : 
as  far  as  I am  aware,  I have  never  yet  misinterpreted  any 
picture  of  Turner’s,  though  often  remaining  blind  to  the  half 


140 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


of  what  he  had  intended  : neither  have  I as  yet  found  any- 
thing to  correct  in  my  statements  respecting  Venetian  archi- 
tecture ; * but  in  casual  references  to  what  has  been  quickly 
seen,  it  is  impossible  to  guard  wholly  against  error,  without 
losing  much  valuable  observation,  true  in  ninety-nine  cases 
out  of  a hundred,  and  harmless  even  when  erroneous. 


APPENDIX  n. 

Reynolds’  disappointment. 

It  is  very  fortunate  that  in  the  fragment  of  Mason’s  MSS., 
published  lately  by  Mr.  Cotton  in  his  “ Sir  Joshua  Reynolds’ 
Notes,”  f record  is  preserved  of  Sir  Joshua’s  feelings  respect- 
ing the  paintings  in  the  window  of  New  College,  which  might 
otherwise  have  been  supposed  to  give  his  full  sanction  to  this 
mode  of  painting  on  glass.  Nothing  can  possibly  be  more 
curious,  to  my  mind,  than  the  great  paintei’s  expectations ; 
or  his  having  at  all  entertained  the  idea  that  the  qualities  of 
colour  which  are  peculiar  to  opaque  bodies  could  be  obtained 
in  a transparent  medium  ; but  so  it  is  : and  with  the  simplic- 
ity and  humbleness  of  an  entirely  great  man  he  hopes  that 
Mr.  Jervas  on  glass  is  to  excel  Sir  Joshua  on  canvas.  Hap- 
pily, Mason  tells  us  the  result. 

“ With  the  copy  Jervas  made  of  this  picture  he  was  griev- 
ously disappointed.  ‘ I had  frequently,’  he  said  to  me, 
‘ pleased  myself  by  reflecting,  after  I had  produced  what  I 
thought  a brilliant  effect  of  light  and  shadow  on  my  canvas, 
how  greatly  that  effect  would  be  heightened  by  the  trans- 
parency which  the  painting  on  glass  would  be  sure  to  pro- 
duce. It  turned  out  quite  the  reverse.’” 

* The  subtle  portions  of  the  Byzantine  Palaces,  given  in  precise  meas- 
urements  in  the  second  volume  of  the  “Stones  of  Venice,  ’ were  alleged 
by  architects  to  be  accidental  irregularities.  They  will  be  found,  by 
every  one  who  will  take  the  pains  to  examine  them,  most  assuredly  and 
indisputably  intentional, — and  not  only  so,  but  0B0  of  the  principal 
subjects  of  the  designer's  care. 

f Smith,  Soho  Square,  1859. 


APPENDICES. 


141 


APPENDIX  HI. 

CLASSICAL  ARCHITECTURE. 

This  passage  in  the  lecture  was  illustrated  by  an  enlargement 
cf  the  woodcut,  Fig.  1 ; but  I did  not  choose  to  disfigure  the 
middle  of  this  book  with  it.  It  is  copied  from  the  49th  plate 
of  the  third  edition  of  the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica  (Edin- 
burgh,  1797),  and  represents  an  English  farmhouse  arranged 


Fig.  i. 


on  classical  principles.  If  the  reader  cares  to  consult  the 
work  itself,  he  will  find  in  the  same  plate  another  composi- 
tion of  similar  propriety,  and  dignified  by  the  addition  of  a 
pediment,  beneath  the  shadow  of  which  “a  private  gentleman 
who  has  a small  family  may  find  conveniency.” 


APPENDIX  IV. 

SUBTLETY  OF  HAND. 

I HAD  intended  in  one  or  other  of  these  lectures  to  have 
spoken  at  some  length  of  the  quality  of  refinement  in  Colour, 
but  found  the  subject  would  lead  me  too  far.  A few  words 


U2 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


are,  however,  necessary  in  order  to  explain  some  expressions 
in  the  text. 

“ Refinement  in  colour  ” is  indeed  a tautological  expression, 
for  colour,  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word,  does  not  exist  until 
it  is  refined.  Dirt  exists, — stains  exist, — and  pigments  exist, 
easily  enough  in  all  places  ; and  are  laid  on  easily  enough  by 
all  hands  ; but  colour  exists  only  where  there  is  tenderness, 
and  can  be  laid  on  only  by  a hand  which  has  strong  life  in  it. 
The  law  concerning  colour  is  very  strange,  very  noble,  in  some 
sense  almost  awfuL  In  every  given  touch  laid  on  canvas,  if 
one  grain  of  the  colour  is  inoperative,  and  does  not  take  its 
full  part  in  producing  the  hue,  the  hue  will  be  imperfect. 
The  grain  of  colour  which  does  not  work  is  dead.  It  infects 
all  about  it  with  its  death.  It  must  be  got  quit  of,  or  the 
touch  is  spoiled.  We  acknowledge  this  instinctively  in  our 
use  of  the  phrases  “dead  colour,”  “killed  colour,”  “foul 
colour.”  Those  words  are,  in  some  sort,  literally  true.  If 
more  colour  is  put  on  than  is  necessary,  a heavy  touch  when 
a light  one  would  have  been  enough,  the  quantity  of  colour 
that  was  not  wanted,  and  is  overlaid  by  the  rest,  is  as  dead, 
and  it  pollutes  the  rest.  There  will  be  no  good  in  the 
touch. 

The  art  of  painting,  properly  so  called,  consists  in  laying 
on  the  least  possible  colour  that  will  produce  the  required  re- 
sult, and  this  measurement,  in  all  the  ultimate,  that  is  to  say, 
the  principal,  operations  of  colouring,  is  so  delicate  that  not 
one  human  hand  in  a million  has  the  required  lightness.  The 
final  touch  of  any  painter  properly  so  named,  of  Correggio — 
Titian — Turner — or  Reynolds — would  be  always  quite  invisi- 
ble to  any  one  watching  the  progress  of  the  work,  the  films  of 
hue  being  laid  thinner  than  the  depths  of  the  grooves  in 
mother-of-pearl.  The  work  may  be  swift,  apparently  careless, 
nay,  to  the  painter  himself  almost  unconscious.  Great  painters 
are  so  organized  that  they  do  their  best  work  without  effort ; 
but  analyze  the  touches  afterwards,  and  you  will  find  the  struct- 
ure and  depth  of  the  colour  laid  mathematically  demonstrable 
to  be  of  literally  infinite  fineness,  the  last  touches  passing  away 
at  their  edges  by  untraceable  gradation.  The  very  essence  of 


APPENDICES. 


143 


a master’s  work  may  thus  be  removed  by  a picture-cleaner  in 
ten  minutes. 

Observe,  however,  this  thinness  exists  only  in  portions  of 
the  ultimate  touches,  for  which  the  preparation  may  often  have 
been  made  with  solid  colours,  commonly,  and  literally,  called 
“ dead  colouring,”  but  even  that  is  always  subtle  if  a master 
lays  it — subtle  at  least  in  drawing,  if  simple  in  hue  ; and  far- 
ther, observe  that  the  refinement  of  work  consists  not  in  lay- 
ing absolutely  little  colour,  but  in  always  laying  precisely  the 
right  quantity.  To  lay  on  little  needs  indeed  the  rare  light- 
ness of  hand  ; but  to  lay  much, — yet  not  one  atom  too  much, 
and  obtain  subtlety,  not  by  withholding  strength,  but  by  pre- 
cision of  pause, — that  is  the  master’s  final  sign-manual — power, 
knowledge,  and  tenderness  all  united.  A great  deal  of  colour 
may  often  be  wanted  ; perhaps  quite  a mass  of  it,  such  as  shall 
project  from  the  canvas  ; but  the  real  painter  lays  this  mass 
of  its  required  thickness  and  shape  with  as  much  precision  as 
if  it  were  a bud  of  a flower  which  he  had  to  touch  into  blos- 
som ; one  of  Turner’s  loaded  fragments  of  white  cloud  is  mod- 
elled and  gradated  in  an  instant,  as  if  it  alone  were  the  sub- 
ject of  the  picture,  when  the  same  quantity  of  colour,  under 
another  hand,  would  be  a lifeless  lump. 

The  following  extract  from  a letter  in  the  Literary  Gazette 
of  13th  November,  1858,  which  I was  obliged  to  write  to  de- 
fend a questioned  expression  respecting  Turner’s  subtlety  of 
hand  from  a charge  of  hyperbole,  contains  some  interesting 
and  conclusive  evidence  on  the  point,  though  it  refers  to 
pencil  and  chalk  drawing  only  : — 

“ I must  ask  you  to  allow  me  yet  leave  to  reply  to  the  ob- 
jections you  make  to  two  statements  in  my  catalogue,  as  those 
objections  would  otherwise  diminish  its  usefulness.  I have 
asserted  that,  in  a given  drawing  (named  as  one  of  the  chief  in 
the  series),  Turner’s  pencil  did  not  move  over  the  thousandth  of 
an  inch  without  meaning  ; and  you  charge  this  expression  with 
extravagant  hyperbole.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  much  within 
the  truth,  being  merely  a mathematically  accurate  description 
of  fairly  good  execution  in  either  drawing  or  engraving.  It  is 
only  necessary  to  measure  a piece  of  any  ordinary  good  work  to 


144 


TEE  TWO  PATES. 


ascertain  this.  Take,  for  instance,  Finden’s  engraving  at  the 
180th  page  of  Rogers’  poems  ; in  which  the  face  of  the  figure, 
from  the  chin  to  the  top  of  the  brow,  occupies  just  a quarter 
of  an  inch,  and  the  space  between  the  upper  lip  and  chin  as 
nearly  as  possible  one-seventeenth  of  an  inch.  The  whole 
mouth  occupies  one-third  of  this  space,  say  one-fiftieth  of  an 
inch,  and  within  that  space  both  the  lips  and  the  much  more 
difficult  inner  corner  of  the  mouth  are  perfectly  drawn  and 
rounded,  with  quite  successful  and  sufficiently  subtle  expression. 
Any  artist  will  assure  you  that  in  order  to  draw  a mouth  as  well 
as  this,  there  must  be  more  than  twenty  gradations  of  shade  in 
the  touches  ; that  is  to  say,  in  this  case,  gradations  changing, 
with  meaning,  within  less  than  the  thousandth  of  an  inch. 

“ But  this  is  mere  child’s  play  compared  to  the  refinement 
of  a first-rate  mechanical  work — much  more  of  brush  or  pencil 
drawing  by  a master’s  hand.  In  order  at  once  to  furnish  you 
with  authoritative  evidence  on  this  point,  I wrote  to  Mr.  Kings- 
ley, tutor  of  Sidney-Sussex  College,  a friend  to  whom  I always 
have  recourse  when  I want  to  be  precisely  right  in  any  matter ; 
for  his  great  knowledge  both  of  mathematics  and  of  natural 
science  is  joined,  not  only  with  singular  powers  of  delicate 
experimental  manipulation,  but  with  a keen  sensitiveness  to 
beauty  in  art.  His  answer,  in  its  final  statement  respecting 
Turner’s  work,  is  amazing  even  to  me,  and  will,  I should  think, 
be  more  so  to  your  readers.  Observe  the  successions  of  meas- 
ured and  tested  refinement : here  is  No.  1 : — 

“ ‘ The  finest  mechanical  work  that  I know,  which  is  not 
optical,  is  that  done  by  Nobert  in  the  way  of  ruling  lines.  I 
have  a series  ruled  by  him  on  glass,  giving  actual  scales  from 
•000024  and  *000016  of  an  inch,  perfectly  correct  to  these  places 
of  decimals,  and  he  has  executed  others  as  fine  as  *000012, 
though  I do  not  know  how  far  he  could  repeat  these  last  with 
accuracy.’ 

“ This  is  No.  1,  of  precision.  Mr.  Kingsley  proceeds  to 
No.  2 : — 

“ ‘ But  this  is  rude  work  compared  to  the  accuracy  necessary 
for  the  construction  of  the  object-glass  of  a microscope  such 
as  Rosse  turns  out.’ 


APPENDICES. 


145 


“ I am  sorry  to  omit  the  explanation  which  follows  of  the 
ten  lenses  composing  such  a glass,  * each  of  which  must  be 
exact  in  radius  and  in  surface,  and  all  have  their  axes  coinci- 
dent : ’ but  it  would  not  be  intelligible  without  the  figure  by 
which  it  is  illustrated  ; so  I pass  to  Mr.  Kingsley’s  No.  3 : — 
“‘I  am  tolerably  familiar,’  he  proceeds,  ‘with  the  actual 
grinding  and  polishing  of  lenses  and  specula,  and  have  pro- 
duced by  my  own  hand  some  by  no  means  bad  optical  work,  and 
I have  copied  no  small  amount  of  Turner’s  work,  and  I still  look 
with  awe  at  the  combined  delicacy  and  precision  of  his  hand  ; it 
beats  optical  work  out  of  sight.  In  optical  work,  as  in  refined 
drawing,  the  hand  goes  beyond  the  eye,  and  one  has  to  depend 
upon  the  feel  ; and  when  one  has  once  learned  what  a delicate 
affair  touch  is,  one  gets  a horror  of  all  coarse  work,  and  is 
ready  to  forgive  any  amount  of  feebleness,  sooner  than  that 
boldness  which  is  akin  to  impudence.  In  optics  the  distinc- 
tion is  easily  seen  when  the  work  is  put  to  trial ; but  here  too, 
as  in  drawing,  it  requires  an  educated  eye  to  tell  the  differ- 
ence when  the  work  is  only  moderately  bad  ; but  with  “bold  ” 
work,  nothing  can  be  seen  but  distortion  and  fog  : and  I 
heartily  wish  the  same  result  would  follow  the  same  kind 
of  handling  in  drawing  ; but  here,  the  boldness  cheats  the  un- 
learned by  looking  like  the  precision  of  the  true  man.  It  is 
very  strange  how  much  better  our  ears  are  than  our  eyes  in  this 
country  : if  an  ignorant  man  were  to  be  “ bold  ” with  a violin, 
he  would  not  get  many  admirers,  though  his  boldness  was  far 
below  that  of  ninety -nine  out  of  a hundred  drawings  one  sees.’ 
“ The  words  which  I have  put  in  italics  in  the  above  extract 
are  those  which  were  surprising  to  me.  I knew  that  Turner’s 
was  as  refined  as  any  optical  work,  but  had  no  idea  of  its  go- 
ing beyond  it.  Mr.  Kingsley’s  word  ‘ awe’  occurring  just  be- 
fore, is,  however,  as  I have  often  felt,  precisely  the  right  one. 
When  once  we  begin  at  all  to  understand  the  handling  of  any 
truly  great  executor,  such  as  that  of  any  of  the  three  great  Ve- 
netians, of  Correggio,  or  Turner,  the  awe  of  it  is  something 
greater  than  can  be  felt  from  the  most  stupendous  natural 
scenery.  For  the  creation  of  such  a system  as  a high  human 
intelligence,  endowed  with  its  ineffably  perfect  instruments  of 


146 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


eye  and  hand,  is  a far  more  appalling  manifestation  of  Infinite 
Power,  than  the  making  either  of  seas  or  mountains. 

“ After  this  testimony  to  the  completion  of  Turner’s  work, 
I need  not  at  length  defend  myself  from  the  charge  of  hyper- 
bole in  the  statement  that,  ‘ as  far  as  I know,  the  galleries  of 
Europe  may  be  challenged  to  produce  one  sketch  * that  shall 
equal  the  chalk  study  No.  45,  or  the  feeblest  of  the  memoranda 
in  the  71st  and  following  frames  ; ’ which  memoranda,  how- 
ever, it  should  have  been  observed,  are  stated  at  the  44th 
page  to  be  in  some  respects  ‘ the  grandest  work  in  grey  that 
he  did  in  his  life.’  For  I believe  that,  as  manipulators,  none 
but  the  four  men  whom  I have  just  named  (the  three  Vene- 
tians and  Correggio)  were  equal  to  Turner  ; and,  as  far  as  I 
know,  none  of  those  four  ever  put  their  full  strength  into 
sketches.  But  whether  they  did  or  not,  my  statement  in  the 
catalogue  is  limited  by  my  own  knowledge  : and,  as  far  as  I 
can  trust  that  knowledge,  it  is  not  an  enthusiastic  statement, 
but  an  entirely  calm  and  considered  one.  It  may  be  a mistake 
but  it  is  not  a hyperbole.” 


APPENDIX  V. 

I can  only  give,  to  illustrate  this  balcony,  fac-similes  of  rough 
memoranda  made  on  a single  leaf  of  my  note-book,  with  a 
tired  hand  ; but  it  may  be  useful  to  young  students  to  see  them, 
in  order  that  they  may  know  the  difference  between  notes  made 
to  get  at  the  gist  and  heart  of  a thing,  and  notes  made  merely 
to  look  neat.  Only  it  must  be  observed  that  the  best  characters 
of  free  drawing  are  always  lost  even  in  the  most  careful  fac- 
simile ; and  I should  not  show  even  these  slight  notes  in  wood- 
cut  imitation,  unless  the  reader  had  it  in  his  power,  by  a 

* A sketch,  observe, — not  a finished  drawing.  Sketches  are  only 
proper  subjects  of  comparison  with  each  other  when  they  contain  about 
the  same  quantity  of  work  : the  test  of  their  merit  is  the  quantity  of 
truth  told  with  a given  number  of  touches.  The  assertion  in  the  Cata- 
logue which  this  letter  was  written  to  defend,  was  made  respecting  thb 
sketch  of  Rome,  No.  101. 


APPENDICES. 


147 


glance  at  the  21st  or  35th  plates  in  Modern  Painters  (and  yet 
better,  by  trying  to  copy  a piece  of  either  of  them),  to  ascer- 
tain how  far  I can  draw  or  not.  I refer  to  these  plates,  be- 
cause, though  I distinctly  stated  in  the  preface  that  they,  to- 
gether with  the  12th,  20th,  34th,  and  37th,  were  executed  on 
the  steel  by  my  own  hand,  (the  use  of  the  dry  point  in  the 
foregrounds  of  the  12th  and  21st  plates  being  moreover  wholly 
different  from  the  common  processes  of  etching)  I find  it 
constantly  assumed  that  they  were  engraved  for  me — as  if 
direct  lying  in  such  matters  were  a thing  of  quite  common 
usage. 

Fig.  2 is  the  centre-piece  of  the  balcony,  but  a leaf-spray  is 


omitted  on  the  right-hand  side,  having 
been  too  much  buried  among  the  real 
leaves  to  be  drawn. 

Fig.  3 shows  the  intended  general  ef- 
fect of  its  masses,  the  five-leaved  and  six- 
leaved flowers  being  clearly  distinguish- 
able at  any  distance. 

Fig.  4 is  its  profile,  rather  carefully  drawn  at  the  top,  to 
show  the  tulip  and  turkscap  lily  leaves.  Underneath  there  is 
a plate  of  iron  beaten  into  broad  thin  leaves,  which  gives  the 


148 


TEE  TWO  PATES. 


centre  of  the  balcony  a gradual  sweep  outwards,  like  the  side 
of  a ship  of  war.  The  central  profile  is  of  the  greatest  im- 


Fig.  4. 


portance  in  ironwork,  as  the  flow  of  it  affects  the  curves  of 
the  whole  design,  not  merely  in  surface,  as  in  marble  carving, 
but  in  their  intersections,  when  the  side  is  seen  through  the 
front  The  lighter  leaves,  b b}  are  real  bindweed. 


APPENDICES. 


149 


Fig.  5 shows  two  of  the  teeth  of  the  border,  illustrating 
their  irregularity  of  form,  which  takes  place  quite  to  the  ex- 
tent indicated. 

Fig.  6 is  the  border  at  the  side  of  the  balcony,  showing  the 
most  interesting  circumstance  in  the  treatment  of  the  whole, 
namely,  the  enlargement  and  retraction  of  the  teeth  of  the 
cornice,  as  it  approaches  the  wall.  This  treatment  of  the 


Fig.  5.  Fig.  6. 


whole  cornice  as  a kind  of  wreath  round  the  balcony,  having 
its  leaves  flung  loose  at  the  back,  and  set  close  at  the  front,  as 
a girl  would  throw  a wreath  of  leaves  round  her  hair,  is  pre- 
cisely the  most  finished  indication  of  a good  workman’s  mind 
to  be  found  in  the  whole  thing. 

Fig.  7 shows  the  outline  of  the  retracted  leaves  accurately. 


Fig.  7. 


It  was  noted  in  the  text  that  the  whole  of  this  ironwork 
had  been  coloured.  The  difficulty  of  colouring  ironwork 
rightly,  and  the  necessity  of  doing  it  in  some  way  or  other, 
have  been  the  principal  reasons  for  my  never  having  entered 
heartily  into  this  subject ; for  all  the  ironwork  I have  ever 
seen  look  beautiful  was  rusty,  and  rusty  iron  will  not  answer 
modern  purposes.  Nevertheless  it  may  be  painted,  but  it 
needs  some  one  to  do  it  who  knows  what  painting  means,  and 
few  of  us  do — certainly  none,  as  yet,  of  our  restorers  of  deco- 
ration or  writers  on  colour. 


150 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


It  is  a marvellous  thing  to  me  that  book  after  book  should 
appear  on  this  last  subject,  without  apparently  the  slightest 
consciousness  on  the  part  of  the  writers  that  the  first  necessity 
of  beauty  in  colour  is  gradation,  as  the  first  necessity  of 
beauty  in  line  is  curvature, — or  that  the  second  necessity  in 
colour  is  mystery  or  subtlety,  as  the  second  necessity  in  line 
is  softness.  Colour  ungradated  is  wholly  valueless ; colour 
unmysterious  is  wholly  barbarous.  Unless  it  looses  itself  and 
melts  away  towards  other  colours,  as  a true  line  loses  itself 
and  melts  away  towards  other  lines,  colour  has  no  proper  ex- 
istence, in  the  noble  sense  of  the  word.  What  a cube,  or 
tetrahedron,  is  to  organic  form,  ungradated  and  unconfused 
colour  is  to  organic  colour  ; and  a person  who  attempts  to  ar- 
range colour  harmonies  without  gradation  of  tint  is  in  pre- 
cisefy  the  same  category,  as  an  artist  who  should  try  to  com- 
pose a beautiful  picture  out  of  an  accumulation  of  cubes  and 
parallelopipeds. 

The  value  of  hue  in  all  illuminations  on  painted  glass  of 
fine  periods  depends  primarily  on  the  expedients  used  to 
make  the  colours  palpitate  and  fluctuate  ; inequality  of  brill- 
iancy being  the  condition  of  brilliancy,  just  as  inequality  of 
accent  is  the  condition  of  power  and  loveliness  in  sound.  The 
skill  with  which  the  thirteenth  century  illuminators  in  books, 
and  the  Indians  in  shawls  and  carpets,  use  the  minutest  atoms 
of  colour  to  gradate  other  colors,  and  confuse  the  eye,  is  the 
first  secret  in  their  gift  of  splendour : associated,  however, 
with  so  many  other  artifices  -which  are  quite  instinctive  and 
unteachable,  that  it  is  of  little  use  to  dwell  upon  them.  Deli- 
cacy of  organization  in  the  designer  given,  you  will  soon  have 
all,  and  without  it,  nothing.  However,  not  to  close  my  book 
with  desponding  words,  let  me  set  dowm,  as  many  of  us  like 
such  things,  five  Laws  to  which  there  is  no  exception  what- 
ever, and  which,  if  they  can  enable  no  one  to  produce  good 
colour,  are  at  least,  as  far  as  they  reach,  accurately  condem- 
natory of  bad  colour. 

1.  All  good  colour  is  gradated.  A blush  rose  (or,  better 
still,  a blush  itself),  is  the  type  of  rightness  in  arrangement  of 
pure  hue. 


APPENDICES. 


151 


2.  All  harmonies  of  colour  depend  for  their  vitality  on 

THE  ACTION  AND  HELPFUL  OPERATION  OF  EVERY  PARTICLE  OF  COLOUR 
THEY  CONTAIN. 

3.  The  final  particles  of  colour  necessary  to  the  complete- 
ness OF  A COLOUR  HARMONY  ARE  ALWAYS  INFINITELY  SMALL  ; either 

laid  by  immeasurably  subtle  touches  of  the  pencil,  or  pro- 
duced by  portions  of  the  colouring  substance,  however  dis- 
tributed, which  are  so  absolutely  small  as  to  become  at  the  in- 
tended distance  infinitely  so  to  the  eye. 

4.  No  COLOUR  HARMONY  IS  OF  HIGH  ORDER  UNLESS  IT  INVOLVES 

indescribable  tints.  It  is  the  best  possible  sign  of  a colour 
when  nobody  who  sees  it  knows  what  to  call  it,  or  how  to  give 
an  idea  of  it  to  any  one  else.  Even  among  simple  hues  the 
most  valuable  are  those  which  cannot  be  defined  ; the  most 
precious  purples  will  look  brown  beside  pure  purple,  and 
purple  beside  pure  brown  ; and  the  most  precious  greens 
will  be  called  blue  if  seen  beside  pure  green,  and  green  if 
seen  beside  pure  blue. 

5.  The  finer  the  eye  for  colour,  the  less  it  will  require  to 
gratify  it  intensely.  But  that  little  must  be  supremely  good 
and  pure,  as  the  finest  notes  of  a great  singer,  which  are  so 
near  to  silence.  And  a great  colourist  will  make  even  the  ab- 
sence of  colour  lovely,  as  the  fading  of  the  perfect  voice  makes 
silence  sacred 


LOVE’S  MEINIE 


LECTURES  ON  GREEK  AND  ENGLISH  BIRDS 

GIVEN  BEFORE  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  OXFORD 


ADVICE. 


I publish  these  lectures  at  present  roughly,  in  the  form  in 
which  they  were  delivered, — (necessarily  more  brief  and  broken 
than  that  which  may  be  permitted  when  time  is  not  limited,) 
— because  I know  that  some  of  their  hearers  wished  to  obtain 
them  for  immediate  reference.  Ultimately,  I hope,  they  will 
be  completed  in  an  illustrated  volume,  containing  at  least  six 
lectures,  on  the  Bobin,  the  Swallow,  the  Chough,  the  Lark, 
the  Swan,  and  the  Sea-gull.  But  months  pass  by  me  now, 
like  days  ; and  my  work  remains  only  in  design.  I think  it 
better,  therefore,  to  let  the  lectures  appear  separately,  with 
provisional  wood-cuts,  afterwards  to  be  bettered,  or  replaced 
by  more  finished  engravings.  The  illustrated  volume,  if  ever 
finished,  will  cost  a guinea  ; but  these  separate  lectures  a shil- 
ling, or,  if  long,  one  shilling  and  sixpence  each.  The  guinea’s 
worth  will,  perhaps,  be  the  cheaper  book  in  the  end  ; but  I 
shall  be  glad  if  some  of  my  hearers  feel  interest  enough  in  the 
subject  to  prevent  their  waiting  for  it. 

The  modern  vulgarization  of  the  word  “ advertisement  ” 
renders,  I think,  the  use  of  * advice  * as  above,  in  the  sense  of 
the  French  ‘ avis  ’ (passing  into  our  old  English  verb  ‘ avise  ’) 
on  the  whole,  preferable. 

Brantwood, 

Junet  1873. 


LOVE’S  MEINIE. 

“ 11  etoit  tout  couvert  d’oisiaulx.” 

Romance  of  the  Rose. 


LECTURE  I. 

THE  robin. 

1.  Among  the  more  splendid  pictures  in  the  Exhibition  of 
the  Old  Masters,  this  year,  you  cannot  but  remember  the 
Vandyke  portraits  of  the  two  sons  of  the  Duke  of  Lennox.  J 
think  you  cannot  but  remember  it,  because  it  would  be  diffi- 
cult to  find,  even  among  the  works  of  Vandyke,  a more  strik- 
ing representation  of  the  youth  of  our  English  noblesse  ; nor 
one  in  which  the  painter  had  more  exerted  himself,  or  with 
better  success,  in  rendering  the  decorous  pride  and  natural 
grace  of  honourable  aristocracy. 

Vandyke  is,  however,  inferior  to  Titian  and  Velasquez,  in 
that  his  effort  to  show  this  noblesse  of  air  and  persons  ?nay 
always  be  detected  ; also  the  aristocracy  of  Vandyke’s  day  were 
already  so  far  fearful  of  their  own  position  as  to  feel  anxiety 
that  it  should  be  immediately  recognized.  And  the  effect  of 
the  painter’s  conscious  deference,  and  of  the  equally  conscious 
pride  of  the  boys,  as  they  stood  to  be  painted,  has  been  some- 
what to  shorten  the  power  of  the  one,  and  to  abase  the  dig- 
nity  of  the  other.  And  thus,  in  the  midst  of  my  admiration 
of  the  youths’  beautiful  faces,  and  natural  quality  of  majesty, 
set  off  by  all  splendours  of  dress  and  courtesies  of  art,  I could 
not  forbear  questioning  with  myself  what  the  true  value  was, 
in  the  scales  of  creation,  of  these  fair  human  beings  who  set 
so  high  a value  on  themselves  ; and, — as  if  the  only  answer, 


158 


LOVE'S  MEIN  IE. 


— the  words  kept  repeating  themselves  in  my  ear,  “ Ye  are 
of  more  value  than  many  sparrows.” 

2.  Passeres,  arpovOoL , — the  things  that  open  their  wings, 
and  are  not  otherwise  noticeable  ; small  birds  of  the  land  and 
wood  ; the  food  of  the  serpent,  of  man,  or  of  the  stronger 
creatures  of  their  own  kind, — that  even  these,  though  among 
the  simplest  and  obscurest  of  beings,  have  yet  price  in  the 
eyes  of  their  Maker,  and  that  the  death  of  one  of  them  cannot 
take  place  but  by  His  permission,  has  long  been  the  subject 
of  declamation  in  our  pulpits,  and  the  ground  of  much  senti- 
ment in  nursery  education.  But  the  declamation  is  so  aim- 
less, and  the  sentiment  so  hollow,  that,  practically,  the  chief 
interest  of  the  leisure  of  mankind  has  been  found  in  the  de- 
struction of  the  creatures  which  they  professed  to  believe  even 
the  Most  High  would  not  see  perish  without  pity  ; and,  in  re- 
cent days,  it  is  fast  becoming  the  only  definition  of  aristoc- 
racy, that  the  principal  business  of  its  life  is  the  killing  of 
sparrows. 

Sparrows,  or  pigeons,  or  partridges,  what  does  it  matter? 
“ Centum  mille  perdrices  plumbo  confecit ; ” * that  is,  indeed, 
too  often  the  sum  of  the  life  of  an  English  lord  ; much  ques- 
tionable now,  if  indeed  of  more  value  than  that  of  many  spar- 
rows. 

3.  Is  it  not  a strange  fact,  that,  interested  in  nothing  so 
much  for  the  last  two  hundred  years,  as  in  his  horses,  he  yet 
left  it  to  the  farmers  of  Scotland  to  relieve  draught  horses 
from  the  bearing-rein  ; f is  it  not  one  equally  strange  that, 
master  of  the  forests  of  England  for  a thousand  years,  and  of 
its  libraries  for  three  hundred,  he  left  the  natural  history  of 
birds  to  be  written  by  a card-printer’s  lad  of  Newcastle? 
Written,  and  not  written,  for  indeed  we  have  no  natural  his- 
tory of  birds  written  yet.  It  cannot  be  written  but  by  a 
scholar  and  a gentleman ; and  no  English  gentleman  in  re- 
cent times  has  ever  thought  of  birds  except  as  flying  targets, 
or  flavourous  dishes.  The  only  piece  of  natural  history  worth 
the  name  in  the  English  language,  that  I know  of,  is  in  the 

* The  epitaph  on  Count  Zachdarm,  in  “ Sartor  Resartus.” 

f Sir  Arthur  Helps.  “ Animals  and  their  Masters,  ’’  p.  67. 


TEE  ROBIN. 


159 


few  lines  of  Milton  on  the  Creation.  The  only  example  of  a 
proper  manner  of  contribution  to  natural  history  is  in  White’s 
Letters  from  Selborne.  You  know  I have  always  spoken  of 
Bewick  as  pre-eminently  a vulgar  or  boorish  person,  though 
of  splendid  honour  and  genius  ; his  vulgarity  shows  in  noth' 
ing  so  much  as  in  the  poverty  of  the  details  he  has  collected, 
with  the  best  intentions,  and  the  shrewdest  sense,  for  English 
ornithology.  His  imagination  is  not  cultivated  enough  to 
enable  him  to  choose,  or  arrange. 

4.  Nor  can  much  more  be  said  for  the  observations  of  mod- 
ern science.  It  is  vulgar  in  a far  worse  way,  by  its  arrogance 
and  materialism.  In  general,  the  scientific  natural  history  of 
a bird  consists  of  four  articles, — first,  the  name  and  estate  of 
the  gentleman  whose  gamekeeper  shot  the  last  that  was  seen 
in  England ; secondly,  two  or  three  stories  of  doubtful 
origin,  printed  in  every  book  on  the  subject  of  birds  for  the 
last  fifty  years ; thirdly,  an  account  of  the  feathers,  from  the 
comb  to  the  rump,  with  enumeration  of  the  colours  which  are 
never  more  to  be  seen  on  the  living  bird  by  English  eyes ; 
and,  lastly,  a discussion  of  the  reasons  why  none  of  the 
twelve  names  which  former  naturalists  have  given  to  the  bird 
are  of  any  further  use,  and  why  the  present  author  has  given 
it  a thirteenth,  which  is  to  be  universally,  and  to  the  end  of 
time,  accepted. 

5.  You  may  fancy  this  is  caricature  ; but  the  abyss  of  con- 
fusion produced  by  modern  science  in  nomenclature,  and  the 
utter  void  of  the  abyss  when  you  plunge  into  it  after  any  one 
useful  fact,  surpass  all  caricature.  I have  in  my  hand  thirteen 
plates  of  thirteen  species  of  eagles ; eagles  all,  or  hawks  all, 
or  falcons  all — whichever  name  you  choose  for  the  great  race 
of  the  hook-headed  birds  of  prey — some  so  like  that  you  can’t 
tell  the  one  from  the  other,  at  the  distance  at  which  I show 
them  to  you,  all  absolutely  alike  in  their  eagle  or  falcon 
character,  having,  every  one,  the  falx  for  its  beak,  and  every 
one,  flesh  for  its  prey.  Do  you  suppose  the  unhappy  student 
is  to  be  allowed  to  call  them  all  eagles,  or  all  falcons,  to  begin 
with,  as  would  be  the  first  condition  of  a wise  nomenclature, 
establishing  resemblance  by  specific  name,  before  marking 


160 


LOVE'S  MEINIE. 


variation  by  individual  name  ? No  such  luck, 
the  plates  of  the  thirteen  birds  one  by  one, 
their  names  off  the  back  : — 

The  first 
The  second, 

The  third, 

The  fourth, 

The  fifth, 

The  sixth, 

The  seventh, 

The  eighth, 

The  ninth, 

The  tenth, 

The  eleventh 
The  twelfth, 


I hold  you  up 
and  read  you 


is  an  Aquila. 
a Halisetus. 
a Milvus. 
a Pandion. 
an  Astur. 
a Falco. 
a Pernis. 
a Circus, 
a Buteo. 
an  Archibuteo. 
an  Accipiter. 
an  Erythropus. 


And  the  thirteenth,  a Tinnunculus. 

There’s  a nice  little  lesson  to  entertain  a parish  schoolboy 
with,  beginning  his  natural  history  of  birds  ! 


6.  There  are  not  so  many  varieties  of  robin  as  of  hawk,  but 
the  scientific  classifiers  are  not  to  be  beaten.  If  they  cannot 
find  a number  of  similar  birds  to  give  different  names  to,  they 
will  give  two  names  to  the  same  one.  Here  are  two  pictures 
of  your  own  redbreast,  out  of  the  two  best  modem  works  on 
ornithology.  In  one,  it  is  called  “ Motacilla  rubecula;”  in 
the  other,  “ Bubecula  familiaris.” 

7.  It  is  indeed  one  of  the  most  serious,  as  one  of  the  most 
absurd,  weaknesses,  of  modem  naturalists  to  imagine  that  any 
presently  invented  nomenclature  can  stand,  even  were  it 
adopted  by  the  consent  of  nations,  instead  of  the  conceit  of 
individuals.  It  will  take  fifty  years’  digestion  before  the  re- 
cently ascertained  elements  of  natural  science  can  permit  the 
arrangement  of  species  in  any  permanently  (even  over  a 
limited  period)  nameable  order  ; nor  then,  unless  a great  man 
is  born  to  perceive  and  exhibit  such  order.  In  the  meantime, 
the  simplest  and  most  descriptive  nomenclature  is  the  best. 
Every  one  of  these  birds,  for  instance,  might  be  called  falco 
in  Latin,  hawk  in  English,  some  word  being  added  to  dis- 
tinguish the  genus,  which  should  describe  its  piincipal  aspect 


THE  ROBIN. 


161 

or  habit.  Falco  montium,  Mountain  Hawk  ; Falco  silvarum, 
Wood  Hawk  ; Falco  procellarum,  Sea  Hawk  ; and  the  like! 
Then,  one  descriptive  epithet  would  mark  species.  Falco 
montium,  aureus,  Golden  Eagle  ; Falco  silvarum,  apivorus, 
Honey  Buzzard  ; and  so  on  ; and  the  naturalists  of  Vienna! 
Paris,  and  London  should  confirm  the  names  of  known  creat- 
ures, in  conclave,  once  every  half  century,  and  let  them  so 
stand  for  the  next  fifty  years. 

8.  In  the  meantime,  you  yourselves,  or,  to  speak  more 
generally,  the  young  rising  scholars  of  England,— all  of  you 
who  care  for  life  as  well  as  literature,  and  for  spirit, — even 
the  poor  souls  of  birds, — as  well  as  lettering  of  their  classes 
in  books,— you,  with  all  care,  should  cherish  the  old  Saxon- 
English  and  Norman-French  names  of  birds,  and  ascertain 
them  with  the  most  affectionate  research — never  despising 
even  the  rudest  or  most  provincial  forms  : all  of  them  wilh 
some  day  or  other,  give  you  clue  to  historical  points  of  in- 
terest. Take,  for  example,  the  common  English  name  of  this 
low-flying  falcon,  the  most  tameable  and  affectionate  of  his 
tribe,  and  therefore,  I suppose,  fastest  vanishing  from  field 
and  wood,  the  buzzard.  The  name  comes  from  the  Latin 
“ buteo,  still  retained  by  the  ornithologists ; but,  in  its 
original  form,  valueless,  to  you.  But  when  you  get  it  com- 
fortably corrupted  into  Prove^al  “ Busac,”  (whence  gradually 
the  French  busard,  and  our  buzzard,)  you  get  from  it  the  de- 
lightful compound  “busacador,”  “adorer  of  buzzards”— 
meaning,  generally,  a sporting  person  ; and  then  you  have 
Dante’s  Bertrand  de  Born,  the  first  troubadour  of  war,  bear- 
ing witness  to  you  how  the  love  of  mere  hunting  and  falconry 
was  already,  in  his  day,  degrading  the  military  classes,  and,  so 
far  from  being  a necessary  adjunct  of  the  noble  disposition 
of  lover  or  soldier,  was,  even  to  contempt,  showing  itself 
separate  from  both. 


“ Le  ric  home,  cassador, 
M’enneion,  el  buzacador. 
Parian  de  volada,  d’austor, 

Ne  jamais  d’armas,  ni  d’amor.” 


162 


LOVE'S  ME1NTE. 


The  rich  man,  the  chaser, 

Tires  me  to  death ; and  the  adorer  of  buzzards. 

They  talk  of  covey  and  hawk, 

And  never  of  arms,  nor  of  love. 

“ Cassador,”  of  course,  afterwards  becomes  “ chasseur,  ” and 
“austor”  “vautour.”  But  after  you  have  read  this,  and  fa 
miliarized  your  ear  with  the  old  word,  how  differently  Milton’s 
phrase  will  ring  to  you, — “Those  who  thought  no  better  of 
the  Living  God  than  of  a buzzard  idol,” — and  how  literal  it 
becomes,  when  we  think  of  the  actual  difference  between  a 
member  of  Parliament  in  Milton’s  time,  and  the  Busacador 
of  to-day  ; — and  all  this  freshness  and  value  in  the  reading, 
observe,  come  of  your  keeping  the  word  which  great  men  have 
used  for  the  bird,  instead  of  letting  the  anatomists  blunder 
out  a new  one  from  their  Latin  dictionaries. 

9.  There  are  not  so  many  nameable  varieties,  I just  now  said, 
of  robin  as  of  falcon  ; but  this  is  somewhat  inaccurately  stated. 
Those  thirteen  birds  represented  a very  large  proportion  of  the 
entire  group  of  the  birds  of  prey,  which  in  my  sevenfold  classi- 
fication I recommended  you  to  call  universally,  “hawks.”  The 
robin  is  only  one  of  the  far  greater  multitude  of  small  birds 
which  live  almost  indiscriminately  on  grain  or  insects,  and 
which  I recommended  you  to  call  generally  “ sparrows  ; ” but 
of  the  robin  itself,  there  are  two  important  European  varieties 
— one  red-breasted,  and  the  other  blue-breasted. 

10.  You  probably,  some  of  you,  never  heard  of  the  blue- 
breast  ; very  few,  certainly,  have  seen  one  alive,  and,  if  alive, 
certainly  not  wild  in  England. 

Here  is  a picture  of  it,  daintily  done,*  and  you  can  see  the 
pretty  blue  shield  on  its  breast,  perhaps,  at  this  distance.  Vain 
shield,  if  ever  the  fair  little  thing  is  wretched  enough  to  set 
foot  on  English  ground ! I find  the  last  that  was  seen  was 
shot  at  Margate  so  long  ago  as  1842, — and  there  seems  to  be 
no  official  record  of  any  visit  before  that,  since  Mr.  Thomas 
Embledon  shot  one  on  Newcastle  town  moor  in  1816.  But 
this  rarity  of  visit  to  us  is  strange  ; other  birds  have  no  such 

* Mr.  Gould’s,  in  his  “ Birds  of  Gr«a*.  Britain.’* 


THE  ROBIN. 


163 


clear  objection  to  being  shot,  and  really  seem  to  come  to  Eng- 
land expressly  for  the  purpose.  And  yet  this  blue-bird — (one 
can’t  say  “ blue  robin  ” — I think  we  shall  have  to  call  him 
“bluet,” like  the  cornflower) — stays  in  Sweden,  where  it  sings 
so  sweetly  that  it  is  called  “ a hundred  tongues.” 

11.  That,  then,  is  the  utmost  which  the  lords  of  land,  and 
masters  of  science,  do  for  us  in  their  watch  upon  our  feathered 
suppliants.  One  kills  them,  the  other  writes  classifying  epi- 
taphs. 

We  have  next  to  ask  what  the  poets,  painters,  and  monks 
have  done. 

The  poets — among  whom  I affectionately  and  reverently 
class  the  sweet  singers  of  the  nursery,  mothers  and  nurses — 
have  done  much  ; very  nearly  all  that  I care  for  your  thinking 
of.  The  painters  and  monks,  the  one  being  so  greatly  under 
the  influence  of  the  other,  we  may  for  the  present  class  to- 
gether; and  may  almost  sum  their  contributions  to  ornithology 
in  saying  that  they  have  plucked  the  wings  from  birds,  to 
make  angels  of  men,  and  the  claws  from  birds,  to  make  devils 
of  men. 

If  you  were  to  take  away  from  religious  art  these  two  great 
helps  of  its — I must  say,  on  the  whole,  very  feeble — imagina- 
tion ; if  you  were  to  take  from  it,  I say,  the  power  of  putting 
wings  on  shoulders,  and  claw^s  on  fingers  and  toes,  how  won- 
derfully the  sphere  of  its  angelic  and  diabolic  characters  would 
be  contracted  ! Reduced  only  to  the  sources  of  expression  in 
face  or  movements,  you  might  still  find  in  good  early  sculpt* 
ure  very  sufficient  devils ; but  the  best  angels  would  resolve 
themselves,  I think,  into  little  more  than,  and  not  often  into 
so  much  as,  the  likenesses  of  pretty  women,  with  that  grave 
and  (I  do  not  say  it  ironically)  majestic  expression  which  they 
put  on,  when,  being  very  fond  of  their  husbands  and  children, 
they  seriously  think  either  the  one  or  the  other  have  misbe- 
haved themselves. 

12.  And  it  is  not  a little  discouraging  for  me,  and  may  well 
make  you  doubtful  of  my  right  judgment  in  this  endeavour  to 
lead  you  into  closer  attention  to  the  bird,  with  its  wings  and 
claws  still  in  its  own  possession ; — it  is  discouraging,  I say,  to 


164 


LOVE'S  MEINIE. 


observe  that  the  beginning  of  such  more  faithfu?  and  accurate 
observation  in  former  art,  is  exactly  coeval  with  the  commence- 
ment of  its  decline.  The  feverish  and  ungraceful  natural 
history  of  Paul,  called,  “ of  the  birds,”  Paolo  degli  Uccelli, 
produced,  indeed,  no  harmful  result  on  the  minds  of  his  con- 
temporaries ; they  watched  in  him,  with  only  contemptuous 
admiration,  the  fantasy  of  zoological  instinct  which  filled  his 
house  with  painted  dogs,  cats,  and  birds,  because  he  was  too 
poor  to  fill  it  with  real  ones.  Their  judgment  of  this  morbidly 
naturalistic  art  was  conclusively  expressed  by  the  sentence  of 
Donatello,  when  going  one  morning  into  the  Old  Market,  to 
buy  fruit,  and  finding  the  animal  painter  uncovering  a pict- 
ure, which  had  cost  him  months  of  care,  (curiously  symbolic 
in  its  subject,  the  infidelity  of  St.  Thomas,  of  the  investigatory 
fingering  of  the  natural  historian,)  “ Paul,  my  friend,”  said 
Donatello,  “ thou  art  uncovering  the  picture  just  when  thou 
shouldst  be  shutting  it  up.” 

13.  No  harm,  therefore,  I repeat,  but,  on  the  contrary,  some 
wholesome  stimulus  to  the  fancy  of  men  like  Luca  and  Dona- 
tello themselves,  came  of  the  grotesque  and  impertinent 
zoology  of  Uccello. 

But  the  fatallest  institutor  of  proud  modern  anatomical  and 
scientific  art,  and  of  all  that  has  polluted  the  dignity,  and 
darkened  the  charity,  of  the  greater  ages,  was  Antonio  Polla- 
juolo  of  Florence.  Antonio  (that  is  to  say)  the  Poulterer — so 
named  from  the  trade  of  his  grandfather,  and  with  just  so 
much  of  his  grandfather’s  trade  left  in  his  own  disposition, 
that  being  set  by  Lorenzo  Ghiberti  to  complete  one  of  the 
ornamental  festoons  of  the  gates  of  the  Florentine  Baptistery, 
there,  (says  Vasari)  “ Antonio  produced  a quail,  which  may 
still  be  seen,  and  is  so  beautiful,  nay,  so  perfect,  that  it  wants 
nothing  but  the  power  of  flight.” 

14.  Here,  the  morbid  tendency  was  as  attractive  as  it  was 
subtle.  Ghiberti  himself  fell  under  the  influence  of  it ; 
allowed  the  borders  of  his  gates,  with  their  fluttering  birds 
and  bossy  fruits,  to  dispute  the  spectators’  favour  with  the  re- 
ligious subjects  they  enclosed  ; and,  from  that  day  forward, 
minuteness  and  muscularity  were,  with  curious  harmony  of 


THE  ROBIN. 


165 


evil,  delighted  in  together  ; and  the  lancet  and  the  microscope, 
in  the  hands  of  fools,  were  supposed  to  be  complete  substi- 
tutes for  imagination  in  the  souls  of  wise  men  : so  that  even 
the  best  artists  are  gradually  compelled,  or  beguiled,  into 
compliance  with  the  curiosity  of  their  day ; and  Francia,  in  the 
city  of  Bologna,  is  held  to  be  a “kind  of  god,  more  particu- 
larly”  (again  I quote  Vasari)  “after  he  had  painted  a set  of 
caparisons  for  the  Duke  of  Urbino,  on  which  he  depicted  a 
great  forest  all  on  fire,  and  whence  there  rushes  forth  an  im- 
mense number  of  every  kind  of  animal,  with  several  human 
figures.  This  terrific,  yet  truly  beautiful  representation,  was 
all  the  more  highly  esteemed  for  the  time  that  had  been  ex- 
pended on  it  in  the  plumage  of  the  birds,  and  other  minutne 
in  the  delineation  of  the  different  animals,  and  in  the  diversity 
of  the  branches  and  leaves  of  the  various  trees  seen  therein  ; ” 
and  thenceforward  the  catastrophe  is  direct,  to  the  ornitho- 
logical museums  which  Breughel  painted  for  gardens  of  Eden, 
and  to  the  still  life  and  dead  game  of  Dutch  celebrities. 

15.  And  yet  I am  going  to  invite  you  to-day  to  examine, 
down  to  almost  microscopic  detail,  the  aspect  of  a small  bird’ 
and  to  invite  you  to  do  this,  as  a most  expedient  and  sure  step 
in  your  study  of  the  greatest  art. 

But  the  difference  in  our  motive  of  examination  will  entirely 
alter  the  result.  To  paint  birds  that  we  may  show  how  mi- 
nutely we  can  paint,  is  among  the  most  contemptible  occupa- 
tions of  art.  To  paint  them,  that  we  may  show  how  beautiful 
they  are,  is  not  indeed  one  of  its  highest,  but  quite  one  of  its 
pleasantest  and  most  useful ; it  is  a skill  within  the  reach  of 
every  student  of  average  capacity,  and  which,  so  far  as  ac- 
quired, will  assuredly  both  make  their  hearts  kinder,  and 
their  lives  happier. 

Without  further  preamble,  I will  ask  you  to  look  to-day, 
more  carefully  than  usual,  at  your  well-known  favourite,  and 
to  think  about  him  with  some  precision. 

16.  And  first,  Where  does  he  come  from  ? I stated  that  my 
lectures  were  to  be  on  English  and  Greek  birds  ; but  we  are 
apt  to  fancy  the  robin  all  our  own.  How  exclusively,  do  you 
suppose,  he  really  belongs  to  us  ? You  would  think  this  was 


166 


LOVE'S  MEIN  IE. 


the  first  point  to  be  settled  in  any  book  about  him.  T have 
hunted  all  my  books  through,  and  can’t  tell  you  how  much 
he  is  our  own,  or  how  far  he  is  a traveller. 

And,  indeed,  are  not  all  our  ideas  obscure  about  migration 
itself  ? You  are  broadly  told  that  a bird  travels,  and  how 
wonderful  it  is  that  it  finds  its  way  ; but  you  are  scarcely  ever 
told,  or  led  to  think,  what  it  really  travels  for — whether  for 
food,  for  warmth,  or  for  seclusion — and  how  the  travelling  is 
connected  with  its  fixed  home.  Birds  have  not  their  town 
and  country  houses, — their  villas  in  Italy,  and  shooting  boxes 
in  Scotland.  The  country  in  which  they  build  their  nests  is 
their  proper  home, — the  country,  that  is  to  say,  in  which  they 
pass  the  spring  and  summer.  Then  they  go  south  in  the 
winter,  for  food  and  warmth  ; but  in  what  lines,  and  by  what 
stages  ? The  general  definition  of  a migrant  in  this  hemi- 
sphere is  a bird  that  goes  north  to  build  its  nest,  and  south 
for  the  winter ; but,  then,  the  one  essential  point  to  know 
about  it  is  the  breadth  and  latitude  of  the  zone  it  properly  in- 
habits,— that  is  to  say,  in  which  it  builds  its  nest  ; next,  its 
habit  of  life,  and  extent  and  line  of  southing  in  the  winter  ; 
and,  finally,  its  manner  of  travelling. 

17.  Now,  here  is  this  entirely  familiar  bird,  the  robin. 
Quite  the  first  thing  that  strikes  me  about  it,  looking  at  it  as 
a painter,  is  the  small  effect  it  seems  to  have  had  on  the  minds 
of  the  southern  nations.  I trace  nothing  of  it  definitely,  either 
in  the  art  or  literature  of  Greece  or  Italy.  I find,  even,  no 
definite  name  for  it ; you  don’t  know  if  Lesbia’s  “passer  ” had 
a red  breast,  or  a blue,  or  a brown.  And  yet  Mr.  Gould  says 
it  is  abundant  in  all  parts  of  Europe,  in  all  the  islands  of  the 
Mediterranean,  and  in  Madeira  and  the  Azores.  And  then  he 
says — (now  notice  the  puzzle  of  this), — “ In  many  parts  of  the 
Continent  it  is  a migrant,  and,  contrary  to  what  obtains  with 
us,  is  there  treated  as  a vagrant,  for  there  is  scarcely  a coun- 
try across  the  water  in  which  it  is  not  shot  down  and  eaten.  ” 

“In  many  parts  of  the  Continent  it  is  a migrant.”  In  what 
parts — how  far — in  what  manner  ? 

18.  In  none  of  the  old  natural  history  books  can  I find  any 
account  of  the  robin  as  a traveller,  but  there  is,  for  once,  some 


THE  ROBIN. 


1(>7 

sufficient  reason  for  their  reticence.  He  has  a curious  fancy 
in  his  manner  of  travelling.  Of  all  birds,  you  would  think  he 
was  likely  to  do  it  in  the  cheerfulest  way,  and  he  does  it  in  the 
saddest.  Do  you  chance  to  have  read,  in  the  Life  of  Charles 
Dickens,  how  fond  he  was  of  taking  long  walks  in  the  night 
and  alone  ? The  robin,  en  voyage,  is  the  Charles  Dickens  of 
birds.  He  always  travels  in  the  night,  and  alone  ; rests,  in 
the  day,  wherever  day  chances  to  find  him ; sings  a little,  and 
pretends  he  hasn’t  been  anywhere.  He  goes  as  far,  in  the 
winter,  as  the  north-west  of  Africa  ; and  in  Lombardy,  arrives 
from  the  south  early  in  March  ; but  does  not  stay  long,  going 
on  into  the  Alps,  where  he  prefers  wooded  and  wild  districts. 
So,  at  least,  says  my  Lombard  informant. 

I do  not  find  him  named  in  the  list  of  Cretan  birds  ; but 
even  if  often  seen,  his  dim  red  breast  was  little  likely  to  make 
much  impression  on  the  Greeks,  who  knew  the  flamingo,  and 
had  made  it,  under  the  name  of  Phoenix  or  Plicenicopterus, 
the  centre  of  their  myths  of  scarlet  birds.  They  broadly  em- 
braced the  general  aspect  of  the  smaller  and  more  obscure 
species,  under  the  term  £ovQo<s,  which,  as  I understand  their 
use  of  it,  exactly  implies  the  indescribable  silky  brown,  the 
groundwork  of  all  other  colour  in  so  many  small  birds,  which 
is  indistinct  among  green  leaves,  and  absolutely  identifies  it- 
self with  dead  ones,  or  with  mossy  stems. 

19.  I think  I show  it  you  more  accurately  in  the  robin’s 
back  than  I could  in  any  other  bird ; its  mode  of  transition 
into  more  brilliant  colour  is,  in  him,  elementarily  simple  ; and 
although  there  is  nothing,  or  rather  because  there  is  nothing, 
in  his  plumage,  of  interest  like  that  of  tropical  birds,  or  even 
of  our  own  game-birds,  I think  it  will  be  desirable  for  you  to 
learn  first  from  the  breast  of  the  robin  what  a feather  is. 
Once  knowing  that,  thoroughly,  we  can  further  learn  from  the 
swallow  what  a wing  is ; from  the  chough  what  a beak  is  ; and 
from  the  falcon  what  a claw  is. 

I must  take  care,  however,  in  neither  of  these  last  two  par- 
ticulars, to  do  injustice  to  our  little  English  friend  here  ; and 
before  we  come  to  his  feathers,  must  ask  you  to  look  at  hia 
bill  and  his  feet. 


168 


LOVE'S  MEIN  IE. 


20.  I do  not  think  it  is  distinctly  enough  felt  by  us  that  the 
beak  of  a bird  is  not  only  its  mouth,  but  its  hand,  or  rather 
its  two  hands.  For,  as  its  arms  and  hands  are  turned  into 
wings,  all  it  has  to  depend  upon,  in  economical  and  practical 
life,  is  its  beak.  The  beak,  therefore,  is  at  once  its  sword,  its 
carpenter’s  tool-box,  and  its  dressing-case  ; partly  also  its 
musical  instrument ; all  this  besides  its  function  of  seizing 
and  preparing  the  food,  in  which  functions  alone  it  has  to  be 
a trap,  carving-knife,  and  teeth,  all  in  one. 

21.  It  is  this  need  of  the  beak’s  being  a mechanical  tool 
which  chiefly  regulates  the  form  of  a bird’s  face  as  opposed  to 
a four-footed  animal’s.  If  the  question  of  food  were  the  only 
one,  we  might  wonder  why  there  were  not  more  four-footed 
creatures  living  on  seeds  than  there  are  ; or  why  those  that 
do — field-mice  and  the  like — have  not  beaks  instead  of  teeth. 
But  the  fact  is  that  a bird’s  beak  is  by  no  means  a perfect  eat- 
ing or  food-seizing  instrument.  A squirrel  is  far  more  dexter- 
ous with  a nut  than  a cockatoo  ; and  a dog  manages  a bone 
incomparably  better  than  an  eagle.  But  the  beak  has  to  do 
so  much  more  ! Pruning  feathers,  building  nests,  and  the  in- 
cessant discipline  in  military  arts,  are  all  to  be  thought  of,  as 
much  as  feeding. 

Soldiership,  especially,  is  a much  more  imperious  necessity 
among  birds  than  quadrupeds.  Neither  lions  nor  wolves  ha- 
bitually use  claws  or  teeth  in  contest  with  their  own  species  ; 
but  birds,  for  their  partners,  their  nests,  their  hunting- 
grounds,  and  their  personal  dignity,  are  nearly  always  in  con- 
tention ; their  courage  is  unequalled  by  that  of  any  other  race 
of  animals  capable  of  comprehending  danger  ; and  their  per- 
tinacity and  endurance  have,  in  all  ages,  made  them  an  example 
to  the  brave,  and  an  amusement  to  the  base,  among  mankind. 

22.  Nevertheless,  since  as  sword,  as  trowel,  or  as  pocket- 
comb,  the  beak  of  the  bird  has  to  be  pointed,  the  collection  of 
seeds  may  be  conveniently  entrusted  to  this  otherwise  pene- 
trative instrument,  and  such  food  as  can  only  be  obtained  by 
probing  crevices,  splitting  open  fissures,  or  neatly  and  mi- 
nutely picking  things  up,  is  allotted,  pre-eminently,  to  the  bird 
species. 


TEE  ROBIN'. 


169 


The  food  of  the  robin,  as  you  know,  is  very  miscellaneous. 
Linnaeus  says  of  the  Swedish  one,  that  it  is  “delectatus 

euonymi  baccis,” — “delighted  with  dogwood  berries,” the 

dogwood  growing  abundantly  in  Sweden,  as  once  in  Forfar- 
shire, where  it  grew,  though  only  a bush  usually  in  the  south, 
with  trunks  a foot  or  eighteen  inches  in  diameter,  and  the 
tree  thirty  feet  high.  But  the  Swedish  robin’s  taste  for  its 
berries  is  to  be  noted  by  you,  because,  first,  the  dogwood 
berry  is  commonly  said  to  be  so  bitter  that  it  is  not  eaten  by 
birds  (Loudon,  “Arboretum,”  ii.,  497,  1.)  ; and,  secondly,  be- 
cause it  is  a pretty  coincidence  that  this  most  familiar  of 
household  birds  should  feed  fondly  from  the  tree  which  gives 
the  housewife  her  spindle, — the  proper  name  of  the  dogwood 
in  English,  French,  and  German  being  alike  “Spindle-tree.”  It 
feeds,  however,  with  us,  certainly,  most  on  worms  and  insects. 
I am  not  sure  how  far  the  following  account  of  its  mode  of 
dressing  its  dinners  may  depend  on  : I take  it  from  an  old 
book  on  Natural  History,  but  find  it,  more  or  less,  confirmed 
by  others : It  takes  a worm  by  one  extremity  in  its  beak,  and 
beats  it  on  the  ground  till  the  inner  part  comes  away.  Then 
seizing  it  in  a similar  manner  by  the  other  end,  it  entirely 
cleanses  the  outer  part,  which  alone  it  eats.” 

One’s  first  impression  is  that  this  must  be  a singularly  un- 
pleasant operation  for  the  worm,  however  fastidiously  delicate 
and  exemplary  in  the  robin.  But  I suppose  the  real  meaning 
is,  that  as  a worm  lives  by  passing  earth  through  its  body,  the 
robin  merely  compels  it  to  quit  this — not  ill-gotten,  indeed, 
but  now  quite  unnecessary— wealth.  We  human  creatures, 
who  have  lived  the  lives  of  worms,  collecting  dust,  are  served 
by  Death  in  exactly  the  same  manner. 

23.  You  will  find  that  the  robin’s  beak,  then,  is  a very  pret- 
tily representative  one  of  general  bird  power.  As  a weapon, 
it  is  very  formidable  indeed  ; he  can  kill  an  adversary  of  his 
own  kind  with  one  blow  of  it  in  the  throat ; and  is  so  pugna- 
cious, “valde  pugnax,”  says  Linnseus,  “ut  non  una  arbor 
duos  capiat  erithacos,” — “no  single  tree  can  hold  two  cock- 
robins  ; ” and  for  precision  of  seizure,  the  little  flat  hook  at 
the  end  of  the  upper  mandible  is  one  of  the  most  delicately 


170 


LOVE'S  MEIN1E. 


formed  points  of  forceps  which  you  can  find  among  the 
grain  eaters.  But  I pass  to  one  of  his  more  special  perfec- 
tions. 

24.  He  is  very  notable  in  the  exquisite  silence  and  precis- 
ion of  his  movements,  as  opposed  to  birds  who  either  creak 
in  flying,  or  waddle  in  walking.  “ Always  quiet,”  says  Gould, 
“for  the  silkiness  of  his  plumage  renders  his  movements 
noiseless,  and  the  rustling  of  his  wings  is  never  heard,  any 
more  than  his  tread  on  earth,  over  which  he  bounds  with 
amazing  sprightliness.”  You  know  how  much  importance  I 
have  always  given,  among  the  fine  arts,  to  good  dancing.  If 
you  think  of  it,  you  will  find  one  of  the  robin’s  very  chief  in- 
gratiatory  faculties  is  his  dainty  and  delicate  movement, — his 
footing  it  featly  here  and  there.  Whatever  prettiness  there 
may  be  in  his  red  breast,  at  his  brightest  he  can  always  be 
outshone  by  a brickbat.  But  if  he  is  rationally  proud  of  any- 
thing about  him,  I should  think  a robin  must  be  proud  of  his 
legs.  Hundreds  of  birds  have  longer  and  more  imposing  ones 
but  for  real  neatness,  finish,  and  precision  of  action,  com- 
mend me  to  his  fine  little  ankles,  and  fine  little  feet ; this  long 
stilted  process,  as  you  know,  corresponding  to  our  ankle-bone. 
Commend  me,  I say,  to  the  robin  for  use  of  his  ankles  he  is, 
of  all  birds,  the  pre-eminent  and  characteristic  Hopper  ; none 
other  so  light,  so  pert,  or  so  swift. 

25.  We  must  not,  however,  give  too  much  credit  to  his  legs 
in  this  matter.  A robin’s  hop  is  half  a flight ; he  hops,  very 
essentially,  with  wings  and  tail,  as  well  as  with  his  feet,  and 
the  exquisitely  rapid  opening  and  quivering  of  the  tail-f  eathers 
certainly  give  half  the  force  to  his  leap.  It  is  in  this  action 
that  he  is  put  among  the  inotacilhe,  or  wagtails  ; but  the  orni- 
thologists have  no  real  business  to  put  him  among  them.  The 
swing  of  the  long  tail-feathers  in  the  true  wagtail  is  entirely 
consequent  on  its  motion,  not  impulsive  of  it — the  tremulous 
shake  is  after  alighting.  But  the  robin  leaps  with  wing,  tail, 
and  foot,  all  in  time,  and  all  helping  each  other.  Leaps,  I 
say  ; and  you  check  at  the  word  ; and  ought  to  check  . you 
look  at  a bird  hopping,  and  the  motion  is  so  much  a matter 
of  course,  you  never  think  how  it  is  done.  But  do  you  think 


TEE  ROBIN. 


171 


you  would  find  it  easy  to  hop  like  a robin  if  you  had  two — all 
but  wooden — legs,  like  this  ? 

26.  I have  looked  wholly  in  vain  through  all  my  books  on 
birds,  to  find  some  account  of  the  muscles  it  uses  in  hopping, 
and  of  the  part  of  the  toes  with  which  the  spring  is  given.  I 
must  leave  you  to  find  out  that  for  yourselves  ; it  is  a little  bit 
of  anatomy  which  I think  it  highly  desirable  for  you  to  know, 
but  which  it  is  not  my  business  to  teach  you.  Only  observe, 
this  is  the  point  to  be  made  out.  You  leap  yourselves,  with 
the  toe  and  ball  of  the  foot ; but,  in  that  power  of  leaping, 
you  lose  the  faculty  of  grasp  ; on  the  contrary,  with  your 
hands,  you  grasp  as  a bird  with  its  feet.  But  you  cannot  hop 
on  your  hands.  A cat,  a leopard,  and  a monkey,  leap  or  grasp 
with  equal  ease  ; but  the  action  of  their  paws  in  leaping  is,  I 
imagine,  from  the  fleshy  ball  of  the  foot ; while  in  the  bird, 
characteristically  ya fx\f/£)w£,  this  fleshy  ball  is  reduced  to  a boss 
or  series  of  bosses,  and  the  nails  are  elongated  into  sickles  or 
horns  ; nor  does  the  springing  power  seem  to  depend  on  the 
development  of  the  bosses.  They  are  far  more  developed  in 
an  eagle  than  a robin  ; but  you  know  how  unpardonably  and 
preposterously  awkward  an  eagle  is  when  he  hops.  When 
they  are  most  of  all  developed,  the  bird  walks,  runs,  and  digs 
well,  but  leaps  badly. 

27.  I have  no  time  to  speak  of  the  various  forms  of  the  ankle 
itself,  or  of  the  scales  of  armour,  more  apparent  than  real,  by 
which  the  foot  and  ankle  are  protected.  The  use  of  this 
lecture  is  not  either  to  describe  or  to  exhibit  these  varieties  to 
you,  but  so  to  awaken  your  attention  to  the  real  points  of 
character,  that,  when  you  have  a bird’s  foot  to  draw,  you  may 
do  so  with  intelligence  and  pleasure,  knowing  whether  you 
want  to  express  force,  grasp,  or  firm  ground  pressure,  or  dex- 
terity and  tact  in  motion.  And  as  the  actions  of  the  foot  and 
the  hand  in  man  are  made  by  every  great  painter  perfectly 
expressive  of  the  character  of  mind,  so  the  expressions  of 
rapacity,  cruelty,  or  force  of  seizure,  in  the  harpy,  the  gryphon, 
and  the  hooked  and  clawed  evil  spirits  of  early  religious 
art,  can  only  be  felt  by  extreme  attention  to  the  original 
form. 


172 


LOVE'S  ME  IN  IE. 


28.  And  now  I return  to  our  main  question,  for  the 
robin’s  breast  to  answer,  “What  is  a feather?”  You  know 
something  about  it  already  ; that  it  is  composed  of  a quill, 
with  its  lateral  filaments,  terminating  generally,  more  or  less, 
in  a point;  that  these  extremities  of  the  quills,  lying  over 
each  other  like  the  tiles  of  a house,  allow  the  wind  and 
rain  to  pass  over  them  with  the  least  possible  resistance, 
and  form  a protection  alike  from  the  heat  and  the  cold  ; 
which,  in  structure  much  resembling  the  scale-armour  assumed 
by  man  for  very  different  objects,  is,  in  fact,  intermediate, 
exactly,  between  the  fur  of  beasts  and  the  scales  of  fishes  ; 
having  the  minute  division  of  the  one,  and  the  armour- 
like symmetry  and  succession  of  the  other. 

29.  Not  merely  symmetry,  observe,  but  extreme  flatness. 
Feathers  are  smoothed  down,  as  a field  of  corn  by  wind  with 
rain  ; only  the  swathes  laid  in  beautiful  order.  They  are  fur, 
so  structurally  placed  as  to  imply,  and  submit  to,  the  perpetu- 
ally swift  forward  motion.  In  fact,  I have  no  doubt  the  Dar- 
winian theory  on  the  subject  is  that  the  feathers  of  birds  once 
stuck  up  all  erect,  like  the  bristles  of  a brush,  and  have  only 
been  blown  flat  by  continual  flying. 

Nay,  we  might  even  sufficiently  represent  the  general  man- 
ner of  conclusion  in  the  Darwinian  system  by  the  statement 
that  if  you  fasten  a hair-brush  to  a mill-wheel,  with  the  handle 
forward,  so  as  to  develop  itself  into  a neck  by  moving  always 
in  the  same  direction,  and  within  continual  hearing  of  a steam- 
whistle,  after  a certain  number  of  revolutions  the  hair-brush 
will  fall  in  love  with  the  whistle  ; they  will  marry,  lay  an  egg, 
and  the  produce  will  be  a nightingale. 

30.  Whether,  however,  a hog’s  bristle  can  turn  into  a 
feather  or  not,  it  is  vital  that  you  should  know  the  present 
difference  between  them. 

The  scientific  people  will  tell  you  that  a feather  is  composed 
of  three  parts — the  down,  the  laminae,  and  the  shaft. 

But  the  common-sense  method  of  stating  the  matter  is  that 
a feather  is  composed  of  two  parts,  a shaft  with  lateral  fila- 
ments. For  the  greater  part  of  the  shaft’s  length,  these  fila- 
ments are  strong  and  nearly  straight,  forming,  by  their  attach- 


TEE  RODIN. 


173 


ment,  a finely  warperl  sail,  like  that  of  a windmill.  But 
towards  the  root  of  the  feather  they  suddenly  become  weak, 
and  confusedly  flexible,  and  form  the  close  down  which  im- 
mediately protects  the  bird’s  body. 

To  show  you  the  typical  arrangement  of  these  parts,  I 
choose,  as  I have  said,  the  robin  ; because,  both  in  his  power 
of  flying,  and  in  his  colour,  he  is  a moderate  and  balanced 
bird  ; not  turned  into  nothing  but  wings,  like  a swallow,  or 
nothing  but  neck  and  tail,  like  a peacock.  And  first  for  his 
hyhig  power.  There  is  one  of  the  long  feathers  of  robin’s 
wing,  and  here  (Fig.  1)  the  analysis  of  its  form. 


31.  First,  in  pure  outline  (a),  seen  from  above,  it  is  very 
nearly  a long  oval,  but  with  this  peculiarity,  that  it  has,  as  it 
were,  projecting  shoulders  at  a 1 and  a 2.  I merely  desire 
you  to  observe  this,  in  passing,  because  one  usually  thinks  of 
the  contour  as  sweeping  unbroken  from  the  root  to  the  point. 
I have  not  time  to-day  to  enter  on  any  discussion  of  the  reason 
for  it,  which  will  appear  when  we  examine  the  placing  of  the 
wing-feathers  for  their  stroke. 

^°w,  ^ hope  you  are  getting  accustomed  to  the  general 
method  in  which  I give  you  the  analysis  of  all  forms— leaf,  or 
feather,  or  shell,  or  limb.  First,  the  plan  ; then  the  pro- 
file ; then  the  cross-section. 

I take  next,  the  profile  of  my  feather  (b,  Fig.  1),  and  find 


A 


B 

[Fig.  1.— Twice  the  size  of  reality.] 


174 


LOVE'S  MEINIE. 


that  it  is  twisted  as  the  sail  of  a windmill  is,  but  more  dis* 
tinctly,  so  that  you  can  always  see  the  upper  surface  of  the 
feather  at  its  root,  and  the  under  at  its  end.  Every  primary 
wing-feather,  in  the  fine  flyers,  is  thus  twisted  ; and  is  best 
described  as  a sail  striking  with  the  power  of  a scymitar,  but 
with  the  flat  instead  of  the  edge. 

32.  Further,  you  remember  that  on  the  edges  of  the  broad 
side  of  feathers  you  find  always  a series  of  undulations,  irreg- 
ularly sequent,  and  lapping  over  each  other  like  waves  on 
sand.  You  might  at  first  imagine  that  this  appearance  was 
owing  to  a slight  ruffling  or  disorder  of  the  filaments  ; but  it 


£ 

Fig.  2. 


is  entirely  normal,  and,  I doubt  not,  so  constructed,  in  order 
to  ensure  a redundance  of  material  in  the  plume,  so  that  no 
accident  or  pressure  from  wind  may  leave  a gap  anywhere. 
How  this  redundance  is  obtained  you  will  see  in  a moment  by 
bending  any  feather  the  wrong  way.  Bend,  for  instance,  this 
plume,  b,  Fig.  2,  into  the  reversed  curve,  a,  Fig.  2 ; then  all 
the  filaments  of  the  plume  become  perfectly  even,  and  there 
are  no  waves  at  the  edge.  But  let  the  plume  return  into  its 
proper  form,  b,  and  the  tissue  being  now  contracted  into  a 
smaller  space,  the  edge  waves  are  formed  in  it  instantly. 

Hitherto,  I have  been  speaking  only  of  the  filaments  ar- 


TEE  ROBUST. 


175 


ranged  for  the  strength  and  continuity  of  the  energetic  plume  ; 
they  are  entirely  different  when  they  are  set  together  for  dec- 
oration instead  of  force.  After  the  feather  of  the  robin’s 
wing  let  us  examine  one  from  his  breast. 

33.  I said,  just  now,  he  might  be  at  once  outshone  by  a 
brickbat.  Indeed,  the  day  before  yesterday,  sleeping  at 
Lichfield,  and  seeing,  the  first  thing  when  I woke  in  the 
morning,  (for  I never  put  dowm  the  blinds  of  my  bedroom 
windows,)  the  not  uncommon  sight  in  an  English  country 
town  of  an  entire  house-front  of  very  neat,  and  very  flat,  and 
very  red  bricks,  with  very  exactly  squared  square  windows  in 
it ; and  not  feeling  myself  in  anywise  gratified  or  improved 
by  the  spectacle,  I was  thinking  how  in  this,  as  in  all  other 
good,  the  too  much  destroyed  all.  The  breadth  of  a robin’s 
breast  in  brick-red  is  delicious,  but  a whole  house-front  of 
brick-red  as  vivid,  is  alarming.  And  yet  one  cannot  gener- 
alize even  that  trite  moral  with  any  safety — for  infinite  breadth 
of  green  is  delightful,  however  green  ; and  of  sea  or  sky,  how- 
ever blue. 

You  must  note,  however,  that  the  robin’s  charm  is  greatly 
helped  by  the  pretty  space  of  grey  plumage  which  separates 
the  red  from  the  brown  back,  and  sets  it  off  to  its  best  advan- 
tage. There  is  no  great  brilliancy  in  it,  even  so  relieved  ; 
only  the  finish  of  it  is  exquisite. 

34.  If  you  separate  a single  feather,  you  will  find  it  more 
like  a transparent  hollow  shell  than  a feather  (so  delicately 
rounded  the  surface  of  it), — grey  at  the  root,  where  the  down 
is,— tinged,  and  only  tinged,  with  red  at  the  part  that  over- 
laps and  is  visible  ; so  that,  when  three  or  four  more  feathers 
have  overlapped  it  again,  all  together,  with  their  joined  red, 
are  just  enough  to  give  the  colour  determined  upon,  each  of 
them  contributing  a tinge.  There  are  about  thirty  of  these 
glowing  filaments  on  each  side,  (the  whole  being  no  larger 
across  than  a w7ell-grown  currant,)  and  each  of  these  is  itself 
another  exquisite  feather,  with  central  quill  and  lateral  webs, 
whose  filaments  are  not  to  be  counted. 

The  extremity  of  these  breast  plumes  parts  slightly  into 
two,  as  you  see  in  the  peacock’s,  and  many  other  such  decora* 


176 


LOVE'S  MEINIE. 


tive  ones.  The  transition  from  the  entirely  leaf-like  shape  of 
the  active  plume,  with  its  oblique  point,  to  the  more  or  less 
symmetrical  dualism  of  the  decorative  plume,  corresponds 
with  the  change  from  the  pointed  green  leaf  to  the  dual,  or 
heart-shaped,  petal  of  many  flowers.  I shall  return  to  this 
part  of  our  subject,  having  given  you,  I believe,  enough  of 
detail  for  the  present. 

35.  I have  said  nothing  to-day  of  the  mythology  of  the  bird, 
though  I told  you  that  would  always  be,  for  us,  the  most  im- 
portant part  of  its  natural  history.  But  I am  obliged,  some- 
times, to  take  what  we  immediately  want,  rather  than  what, 
ultimately,  we  shall  need  chiefly.  In  the  second  place,  you 
probably,  most  of  you,  know  more  of  the  mythology  of  the 
robin  than  I do,  for  the  stories  about  it  are  all  northern,  and  I 
know  scarcely  any  myths  but  the  Italian  and  Greek.  You  will 
find  under  the  name  “ Robin,”  in  Miss  Yonge’s  exhaustive  and 
admirable  “ History  of  Christian  Names,”  the  various  titles  of 
honour  and  endearment  connected  with  him,  and  with  the 
general  idea  of  redness, — from  the  bishop  called  “ Bright 
Red  Fame,”  wdio  founded  the  first  great  Christian  church  on 
the  Rhine,  (I  am  afraid  of  your  thinking  I mean  a pun,  in 
connection  with  robins,  if  I tell  you  the  locality  of  it,)  down 
through  the  Hoods,  and  Roys,  and  Grays,  to  Robin  Good- 
fellow,  and  Spenser’s  “ Hobbinol,”  and  our  modern  “ Hob,” 
joining  on  to  the  “goblin,”  which  comes  from  the  old  Greek 
K6/3a\o<s.  But  I cannot  let  you  go  without  asking  you  to 
compare  the  English  and  French  feeling  about  small  birds, 
in  Chaucer’s  time,  with  our  own  on  the  same  subject.  I say 
English  and  French,  because  the  original  French  of  the  Ro- 
mance of  the  Rose  shows  more  affection  for  birds  than  even 
Chaucer’s  translation,  passionate  as  he  is,  always,  in  love  for 
any  one  of  his  little  winged  brothers  or  sisters.  Look,  how- 
ever, either  in  the  French  or  English,  at  the  description  of  the 
coming  of  the  God  of  Love,  leading  his  carol-dance,  in  the 
garden  of  the  Rose. 

His  dress  is  embroidered  with  figures  of  flowers  and  of 
beasts  ; but  about  him  fly  the  living  birds.  The  French  is  : 


THE  ROBIN. 


177 


II  etoit  tout  couvert  d’oisiaulx 
De  rossignols  et  de  papegaux 
De  calendre,  et  de  mesangel. 

II  semblait  que  ce  fut  une  angle 
Qui  fuz  tout  droit  venuz  du  ciel. 

36.  There  are  several  points  of  philology  in  this  transitional 
French,  and  in  Chaucer’s  translation,  which  it  is  well  worth 
your  patience  to  observe.  The  monkish  Latin  “ angelus,”  you 
see,  is  passing  through  the  very  unpoetical  form  “ angle,”  into 
“ ange  ; ” but,  in  order  to  get  a rhyme  with  it  in  that  angular 
form,  the  French  troubadour  expands  the  bird’s  name,  “ mes- 
ange,”  quite  arbitrarily,  into  “mesangel.”  Then  Chaucer,  not 
liking  the  “ mes  at  the  beginning  of  the  word,  changes  that 
unscrupulously  into  “ arch  ; ” and  gathers  in,  though  too 
shortly,  a lovely  bit  from  another  place  about  the  nightingales 
flying  so  close  round  Love’s  head  that  they  strike  some  of  the 
leaves  off  his  crown  of  roses  ; so  that  the  English  runs  thus : 

But  nightingales,  a full  great  rout 
That  flien  over  his  head  about, 

The  leaves  felden  as  they  flien 
And  he  was  all  with  birds  wrien, 

With  popinjay,  with  nightingale, 

With  chelaundre,  and  with  wodewale, 

With  finch,  with  lark,  and  with  archangel. 

He  seemed  as  he  were  an  angell, 

That  down  were  comen  from  Heaven  clear. 

Now,  when  I first  read  this  bit  of  Chaucer,  without  referring 
to  the  original,  I was  greatly  delighted  to  find  that  there  was 
a bird  in  his  time  called  an  archangel,  and  set  to  work,  with 
brightly  hopeful  industry,  to  find  out  what  it  was.  I was  a 
little  discomfited  by  finding  that  in  old  botany  the  word  only 
meant  “ dead-nettle,”  but  was  still  sanguine  about  my  bird, 
till  I found  the  French  form  descend,  as  you  have  seen,  into 
a mesangel,  and  finally  into  mesange,  which  is  a provincialism 
from  fxeiov,  and  means,  the  smallest  of  birds — or,  specially  here, 
—a  titmouse.  I have  seldom  had  a less  expected  or  more  ig- 
nominious fall  from  the  clouds. 

37.  The  other  birds,  named  here  and  in  the  previous  de- 


178 


LOVE'S  ME1NIE. 


scription  of  the  garden,  are  introduced,  as  far  as  I can  judge, 
nearly  at  random,  and  with  no  precision  of  imagination  like 
that  of  Aristophanes ; but  with  a sweet  childish  delight  in 
crowding  as  many  birds  as  possible  into  the  smallest  space. 
The  popinjay  is  always  prominent ; and  I want  some  of  you 
to  help  me  (for  I have  not  time  at  present  for  the  chase)  in 
hunting  the  parrot  down  on  his  first  appearance  in  Europe. 
Just  at  this  particular  time  he  contested  favour  even  with  the 
falcon  ; and  I think  it  a piece  of  good  fortune  that  I chanced 
to  draw  for  you,  thinking  only  of  its  brilliant  colour,  the  pop- 
injay, which  Carpaccio  allows  to  be  present  on  the  grave  occa- 
sion of  St.  George’s  baptizing  the  princess  and  her  father. 

38.  And,  indeed,  as  soon  as  the  Christian  poets  begin  to 
speak  of  the  singing  of  the  birds,  they  show  themselves  in 
quite  a different  mood  from  any  that  ever  occurs  to  a Greek. 
Aristophanes,  with  infinitely  more  skill,  describes,  and  partly 
imitates,  the  singing  of  the  nightingale  ; but  simply  as  beauti- 
ful sound.  It  “ fills  the  thickets  with  honey  ; ” and  if  in  the 
often-quoted — just  because  it  is  not  characteristic  of  Greek  lit- 
erature— passage  of  the  Coloneus,  a deeper  sentiment  is  shown, 
that  feeling  is  dependent  on  association  of  the  bird-voices  with 
deeply  pathetic  circumstances.  But  this  troubadour  finds  his 
heart  in  heaven  by  the  power  of  the  singing  only  : — 


Trop  parfoisaient  beau  servise 
Ciz  oiselles  que  je  vous  devise. 

II  chantaient  un  chant  ytel 
Com  fussent  angle  esperitel. 

We  want  a moment  more  of  word-chasing  to  enjoy  this. 
“ Oiseau,”  as  you  know,  comes  from  “ avis  ; ” but  it  had  at 
this  time  got  “ oisel  ” for  its  singular  number,  of  which  the 
terminating  “ sel  ” confused  itself  with  the  “ selle,”  from  “ an- 
cilla  ” in  domisella  and  demoiselle  ; and  the  feminine  form 
“ oiselle  ” thus  snatched  for  itself  some  of  the  delightfulness  be- 
longing to  the  title  of  a young  lady.  Then  note  that  “ esperitel  ” 
does  not  here  mean  merely  spiritual,  (because  all  angels  are 
spiritual,)  but  an  “ angle  esperitel  ” is  an  angel  of  the  air.  So 


THE  ROBIN. 


170 


that,  in  English,  we  could  only  express  the  meaning  in  »o*ne 
such  fashion  as  this  : — 

They  perfected  all  their  service  of  Love, 

These  maiden  birds  that  I tell  you  of. 

They  sang  such  a song,  so  finished-fair, 

As  if  they  were  angels,  born  of  the  air. 

39.  Such  were  the  fancies,  then,  and  the  scenes,  in  which 
Englishmen  took  delight  in  Chaucer’s  time.  England  was 
then  a simple  country  ; we  boasted,  for  the  best  kind  of  riches, 
our  birds  and  trees,  and  our  wives  and  children.  We  have 
now  grown  to  be  a rich  one  ; and  our  first  pleasure  is  in  shoot- 
ing our  birds  ; but  it  has  become  too  expensive  for  us  to  keep 
our  trees.  Lord  Derby,  whose  crest  is  the  eagle  and  child — 
you  will  find  the  northern  name  for  it,  the  bird  and  bantling, 
made  classical  by  Scott — is  the  first  to  propose  that  wood- 
birds  should  have  no  more  nests.  We  must  cut  down  all  our 
trees,  he  says,  that  we  may  effectively  use  the  steam-plough  ; 
and  the  effect  of  the  steam-plough,  I find  by  a recent  article 
in  the  “Cornliill  Magazine,”  is  that  an  English  labourer  must 
not  any  more  have  a nest,  nor  bantlings,  neither  ; but  may 
only  expect  to  get  on  prosperously  in  life,  if  he  be  perfectly 
skilful,  sober,  and  honest,  and  dispenses,  at  least  until  he  is 
forty-five,  with  the  “ luxury  of  marriage.” 

40.  Gentlemen,  you  may  perhaps  have  heard  me  blamed  for 
making  no  effort  here  to  teach  in  the  artizans’  schools.  But 
I can  only  say  that,  since  the  future  life  of  the  English 
labourer  or  artizan  (summing  the  benefits  to  him  of  recent 
philosophy  and  economy)  is  to  be  passed  in  a country  without 
angels  and  without  birds,  without  prayers  and  without  songs, 
without  trees  and  without  flowers,  in  a state  of  exemplary 
sobriety,  and  (extending  the  Catholic  celibacy  of  the  clergy 
into  celibacy  of  the  laity)  in  a state  of  dispensation  with  the 
luxury  of  marriage,  I do  not  believe  he  will  derive  either 
profit  or  entertainment  from  lectures  on  the  Fine  Arts. 


.80 


LOVE'S  ME1N1K 


LECTURE  n. 

THE  SWALLOW. 

41.  We  are  to-day  to  take  note  of  the  form  of  a creature 
which  gives  us  a singular  example  of  the  unity  of  what  artists 
call  beauty,  with  the  fineness  of  mechanical  structure,  often 
mistaken  for  it.  You  cannot  but  have  noticed  how  little,  dur- 
ing the  years  of  my  past  professorship,  I have  introduced  any 
questions  as  to  the  nature  of  beauty.  I avoided  them,  partly 
because  they  are  treated  of  at  length  in  my  books ; and  partly 
because  they  are,  in  the  last  degree,  unpractical.  We  are 
born  to  like  or  dislike  certain  aspects  of  things  ; nor  could  I, 
by  any  arguments,  alter  the  defined  tastes  which  you  received 
at  your  birth,  and  which  the  surrounding  circumstances  of 
life  have  enforced,  without  any  possibility  of  your  voluntary 
resistance  to  them.  And  the  result  of  those  surrounding  cir- 
cumstances, to-day,  is  that  most  English  youths  would  have 
more  pleasure  in  looking  at  a locomotive  than  at  a swallow ; 
and  that  many  English  philosophers  would  suppose  the  pleas- 
ure so  received  to  be  through  a new  sense  of  beauty.  But  the 
meaning  of  the  word  “ beauty  ” in  the  fine  arts,  and  in  classical 
literature,  is  properly  restricted  to  those  very  qualities  in 
which  the  locomotion  of  a swallow  differs  from  that  of  an 
engine. 

42.  Not  only  from  that  of  an  engine  ; but  also  from  that  of 
animals  in  whose  members  the  mechanism  is  so  complex  as  to 
give  them  a resemblance  to  engines.  The  dart  of  the  common 
house-fly,  for  instance,  in  full  strength,  is  a more  wonderful 
movement  than  that  of  a swallow.  The  mechanism  of  it  is  not 
only  more  minute,  but  the  swiftness  of  the  action  so  much 
greater,  that  the  vibration  of  the  wing  is  invisible.  But 
though  a schoolboy  might  prefer  the  locomotive  to  the  swal- 
low, he  would  not  carry  his  admiration  of  finely  mechanical 
velocity  into  unqualified  sympathy  with  the  workmanship  of 
the  God  of  Ekron  ; and  w?ould  generally  suppose  that  flies 


THE  SWALLOW. 


181 


were  made  only  to  be  food  for  the  more  graceful  fly-catclier, — 
whose  finer  grace  you  will  discover,  upon  reflection,  to  be 
owing  to  the  very  moderation  and  simplicity  of  its  structure, 
and  to  the  subduing  of  that  infinitude  of  joints,  claws,  tissues, 
veins,  and  fibres  which  inconceivably  vibrate  in  the  micro- 
scopic  * creature’s  motion,  to  a quite  intelligible  and  simple 
balance  of  rounded  body  upon  edged  plume,  maintained  not 
without  visible,  and  sometimes  fatigued,  exertion,  and  raising 
the  lower  creature  into  fellowship  with  the  volition  and  the 
virtue  of  humanity. 

43.  With  the  virtue,  I say,  in  an  exceedingly  qualified 
sense ; meaning  rather  the  strength  and  art  displayed  in  over- 
coming difficulties,  than  any  distinct  morality  of  disposition. 
The  bird  has  kindly  and  homely  qualities  ; but  its  principal 
“ virtue,”  for  us , is  its  being  an  incarnate  voracity,  and  that  it 
moves  as  a consuming  and  cleansing  power.  You  sometimes 
hear  it  said  of  a humane  person  that  he  would  not  kill  a fly  : 
from  700  to  1000  flies  a day  are  a moderate  allowance  for  a 
baby  swallow. 

44.  Perhaps,  as  I say  this,  it  may  occur  to  some  of  you  to 
think,  for  the  first  time,  of  the  reason  of  the  bird’s  name. 
For  it  is  very  interesting,  as  a piece  of  language  study,  to  con- 
sider the  different  power  on  our  minds, — nay  the  different 
sweetness  to  the  ear, — which,  from  association,  these  same 
two  syllables  receive,  when  we  read  them  as  a noun,  or  as  a 
verb.  Also,  the  word  is  a curious  instance  of  the  traps  which 
are  continually  open  for  rash  etymologists.  At  first,  nothing 
would  appear  more  natural  than  that  the  name  should  have 
been  given  to  the  bird  from  its  reckless  function  of  devour- 
ing. But  if  you  look  to  your  Johnson,  you  will  find,  to  your 
better  satisfaction,  that  the  name  means  “ bird  of  porticos,” 
or  porches,  from  the  Gothic  “ swale  ; ” “ subdivale,”— so  that 
it  goes  back  in  thought  as  far  as  Virgil’s,  “ Et  nunc  porticibus 
vacuis,  nunc  humida  circum,  stagna  sonat.”  Notice,  in  pass- 
ing, how  a simile  of  Virgil’s,  or  any  other  great  master’s,  will 
probably  tell  in  two  or  more  ways  at  once.  Juturna  is  com- 

* I call  it  so  because  the  members  and  action  of  it  cannot  be  seen 
with  the  unaided  eye. 


182 


LOVE’S  ME1NIE. 


pared  to  the  swallow,  not  merely  as  winding  and  turning 
swiftly  in  her  chariot,  but  as  being  a water-nymph  by  birth, — 
“ Stagnis  quae,  fluminibusque  sonoris,  praesidet.”  How  many 
different  creatures  in  one  the  swallow  is  by  birth,  as  a Yirgil- 
ian  simile  is  many  thoughts  in  one,  it  would  take  many  more 
lectures  than  one  to  show  you  clearly  ; but  I will  indicate 
them  with  such  rough  sketch  as  is  possible. 

45.  It  belongs,  as  most  of  you  know,  to  a family  of  birds 
called  Fissi-rostres,  or  literally,  split-beaks.  Split  heads  would 
be  a better  term,  for  it  is  the  enormous  width  of  mouth  and 
power  of  gaping  which  the  epithet  is  meant  to  express.  A 
dull  sermon,  for  instance,  makes  half  the  congregation  “ fissi- 
rostres.”  The  bird,  however,  is  most  vigilant  when  its  mouth 
is  widest,  for  it  opens  as  a net  to  catch  whatever  comes  in  its 
way, — hence  the  French,  giving  the  whole  family  the  more 
literal  name,  “ Gobble-fly  ” — Gobe-mouche,  extend  the  term 
to  the  open-mouthed  and  too  acceptant  appearance  of  a sim- 
pleton. 

46.  Partly  in  order  to  provide  for  this  width  of  mouth,  but 
more  for  the  advantage  in  flight,  the  head  of  the  swallow  is 
rounded  into  a bullet  shape,  and  sunk  down  on  the  shoulders, 
with  no  neck  whatever  between,  so  as  to  give  nearly  the  aspect 
of  a conical  rifle  bullet  to  the  entire  front  of  the  body  ; and, 
indeed,  the  bird  moves  more  like  a bullet  than  an  arrow — de- 
pendent on  a certain  impetus  of  weight  rather  than  on  sharp 
penetration  of  the  air.  I say  dependent  on,  but  I have  not 
yet  been  able  to  trace  distinct  relation  between  the  shapes  of 
birds  and  their  powers  of  flight.  I suppose  the  form  of  the 
body  is  first  determined  by  the  general  habits  and  food,  and 
that  nature  can  make  any  form  she  chooses  volatile  ; only  one 
point  I think  is  always  notable,  that  a complete  master  of  the 
art  of  flight  must  be  short-necked,  so  that  he  turns  altogether, 
if  he  turns  at  all.  You  don’t  expect  a swallow  to  look  round 
a comer  before  he  goes  round  it ; he  must  take  his  chance. 
The  main  point  is,  that  he  may  be  able  to  stop  himself,  and 
turn,  in  a moment. 

47.  The  stopping,  on  any  terms,  is  difficult  enough  to  un- 
derstand : nor  less  so,  the  original  gaining  of  the  pace.  We 


TEE  SWALLOW. 


183 


always  think  of  flight  as  if  the  main  difficulty  of  it  were  only 
in  keeping  up  in  the  air  ; — but  the  buoyancy  is  conceivable 
enough,  the  far  more  wonderful  matter  is  the  getting  along. 
You  find  it  hard  work  to  row  yourself  at  anything  like  speed, 
though  your  impulse-stroke  is  given  in  a heavy  element,  and 
your  return-stroke  in  a light  one.  But  both  in  birds  and 
fishes,  the  impelling  stroke  and  its  return  are  in  the  same  ele- 
ment ; and  if,  for  the  bird,  that  medium  yields  easily  to  its 
impulse,  it  secedes  as  easily  from  the  blow  that  gives  it.  And 
if  you  think  what  an  effort  you  make  to  leap  six  feet,  with  the 
earth  for  a fulcrum,  the  dart  either  of  a trout  or  a swallow, 
with  no  fulcrum  but  the  water  and  air  they  penetrate,  will 
seem  to  you,  I think,  greatly  marvellous.  Yet  of  the  mode  in 
which  it  is  accomplished  you  will  as  yet  find  no  undisputed 
account  in  any  book  on  natural  history,  and  scarcely,  as  far  as 
I know,  definite  notice  even  of  the  rate  of  flight.  What  do 
you  suppose  it  is  ? We  are  apt  to  think  of  the  migration  of  a 
swallow,  as  we  should  ourselves  of  a serious  journey.  How 
long,  do  you  think,  it  would  take  him,  if  he  flew  uninterrupt- 
edly, to  get  from  here  to  Africa  ? 

48.  Michelet  gives  the  rate  of  his  flight  (at  full  speed,  of 
course,)  as  eighty  leagues  an  hour.  I find  no  more  sound  au- 
thority ; but  do  not  doubt  his  approximate  accuracy  ; * still 
how  curious  and  how  provoking  it  is  that  neither  White  of 
Selborne,  Bewick,  Yarrell,  nor  Gould,  says  a word  about  this, 
one  should  have  thought  the  most  interesting,  power  of  the 
bird.f 

Taking  Michelet’s  estimate — eighty  French  leagues,  roughly 
two  hundred  and  fifty  miles,  an  hour — we  have  a thousand 
miles  in  four  hours.  That  is  to  say,  leaving  Devonshire  after 
an  early  breakfast,  he  could  be  in  Africa  to  lunch. 

* I wrote  this  some  time  ago,  and  the  endeavour  I have  since  made  to 
verify  statements  on  points  of  natural  history  which  I had  taken  on 
trust  have  given  me  reason  to  doubt  everybody’s  accuracy.  The  ordi- 
nary flight  of  the  swallow  does  not,  assuredly,  even  in  the  dashes,  reach 
anything  like  this  speed. 

f Incidentally  suggestive  sentences  occur  in  the  history  of  Selborne, 
but  its  author  never  comes  to  the  point,  in  this  case. 


184 


LOVE'S  MEINIE. 


49.  He  could,  I say,  if  liis  flight  were  constant ; but  though 
there  is  much  inconsistency  in  the  accounts,  the  sum  of  testi- 
mony seems  definite  that  the  swallow  is  among  the  most 
fatiguable  of  birds.  “ When  the  weather  is  hazy,”  (I  quote 
Yarrell)  “ they  will  alight  on  fishing-boats  a league  or  two 
from  land,  so  tired  that  when  any  one  tries  to  catch  them, 
they  can  scarcely  fly  from  one  end  of  the  boat  to  the  other. 

I have  no  time  to  read  to  you  the  interesting  evidence  on 
this  point  given  by  Yarrell,  but  only  that  of  the  brother  of 
White  of  Selborne,  at  Gibraltar.  “My  brother  has  always 
found,”  he  himself  writes,  “that  some  of  his  birds,  and  par- 
ticularly the  swallow  kind,  are  very  sparing  of  their  pains  in 
crossing  the  Mediterranean  : for  when  arrived  at  Gibraltar, 
they  do  not  * set  forth  their  airy  caravan,  high  over  seas,’  but 
scout  and  hurry  along  in  little  detached  parties  of  six  or  seven 
in  a company  ; and  sweeping  low,  just  over  the  surface  of  the 
land  and  water,  direct  their  course  to  the  opposite  continent  at 
the  narrowest  passage  they  can  find.” 

50.  You  will  observe,  however,  that  it  remains  an  open 
question  whether  this  fear  of  the  sea  may  not  be,  in  the  swal- 
low, like  ours  of  the  desert.  The  commissariat  department  is 
a serious  one  for  birds  that  eat  a thousand  flies  a day  when 
just  out  of  the  egg  ; and  it  is  possible  that  the  weariness  of 
swallows  at  sea  may  depend  much  more  on  fasting  than  flying. 
Captain  (or  Admiral?)  Sir  Charles  Wager  says  that  “one 
spring-time,  as  he  came  into  soundings  in  the  English  Chan- 
nel, a great  flock  of  swallows  came  and  settled  on  all  his  rig- 
ging ; every  rope  was  covered  ; they  hung  on  one  another 
like  a swarm  of  bees  ; even  the  decks  were  filled  with  them. 
They  seemed  almost  famished  and  spent,  and  were  only  feath- 
ers and  bone  ; but,  being  recruited  with  a night’s  rest,  took 
their  flight  in  the  morning.” 

51.  Now  I detain  you  on  this  point  somewhat,  because  it  is 
intimately  connected  with  a more  important  one.  I told  you 
we  should  learn  from  the  swallow  what  a wing  was.  Few 
other  birds  approach  him  in  the  beauty  of  it,  or  apparent 
power.  And  yet,  after  all  this  care  taken  about  it,  he  gets 
tired ; and  instead  of  flying,  as  we  should  do  in  his  place,  all 


TEE  SWALLOW. 


185 


over  the  world,  and  tasting  the  flavor  of  the  midges  in  every 
marsh  which  the  infinitude  of  human  folly  has  left  to  breed 
gnats  instead  of  growing  corn, — he  is  of  all  birds,  character- 
istically, except  when  he  absolutely  can’t  help  it,  the  stayer  at 
home  ; and  contentedly  lodges  himself  and  his  family  in  an 
old  chimney,  when  he  might  be  flying  all  over  the  world. 

At  least  you  would  think,  if  he  built  in  an  English  chimney 
this  year,  he  would  build  in  a French  one  next.  But  no. 
Michelet  prettily  says  of  him,  “ He  is  the  bird  of  return.”  If 
you  will  only  treat  him  kindly,  year  after  year,  he  comes  back 
to  the  same  niche,  and  to  the  same  hearth,  for  his  nest. 

To  the  same  niche  ; and  builds  himself  an  opaque  walled 
house  within  that.  Think  of  this  a little,  as  if  you  heard  of  it 
for  the  first  time. 

52.  Suppose  you  had  never  seen  a swallow  ; but  that  its 
general  habit  of  life  had  been  described  to  you,  and  you  had 
been  asked,  how  you  thought  such  a bird  would  build  its 
nest.  A creature,  observe,  whose  life  is  to  be  passed  in  the  air  ; 
whose  beak  and  throat  are  shaped  with  the  fineness  of  a net 
for  the  catching  of  gnats  ; and  whose  feet,  in  the  most  perfect 
of  the  species,  are  so  feeble  that  it  is  called  the  Footless  Swal- 
low, and  cannot  stand  a moment  on  the  ground  with  comfort. 
Of  all  land  birds,  the  one  that  has  least  to  do  with  the  earth  ; 
of  all,  the  least  disposed,  and  the  least  able,  to  stop  to  pick 
anything  up.  What  will  it  build  with  ? Gossamer,  we  should 
say, — thistledown, — anything  it  can  catch  floating,  like  flies. 

But  it  builds  with  stiff  clay. 

53.  And  observe  its  chosen  place  for  building  also.  You 
would  think,  by  its  play  in  the  air,  that  not  only  of  all  birds, 
but  of  all  creatures,  it  most  delighted  in  space  and  freedom. 
You  would  fancy  its  notion  of  the  place  for  a nest  would  be 
the  openest  field  it  could  find ; that  anything  like  confinement 
would  be  an  agony  to  it ; that  it  would  almost  expire  of  horror 
at  the  sight  of  a black  hole. 

And  its  favourite  home  is  down  a chimney. 

54.  Not  for  your  hearth’s  sake,  nor  for  your  company’s. 
Do  not  think  it.  The  bird  will  love  you  if  you  treat  it  kindly ; 
is  as  frank  and  friendly  as  bird  can  be  ; but  it  does  not,  more 


1S6 


LOVE'S  ME  IN  IE. 


than  others,  seek  your  society.  It  comes  to  your  house  be- 
cause in  no  wild  wood,  nor  rough  rock,  can  it  find  a cavity 
close  enough  to  please  it.  It  comes  for  the  blessedness  of  im- 
prisonment, and  the  solemnity  of  an  unbroken  and  constant 
shadow,  in  the  tower,  or  under  the  eaves. 

Do  you  suppose  that  this  is  part  of  its  necessary  economy, 
and  that  a swallow  could  not  catch  flies  unless  it  lived  in  a 
hole? 

Not  so.  This  instinct  is  part  of  its  brotherhood  with 
another  race  of  creatures.  It  is  given  to  complete  a mesh  in 
the  reticulation  of  the  orders  of  life. 

55.  I have  already  given  you  several  reasons  for  my  wish 
that  you  should  retain,  in  classifying  birds,  the  now  rejected 
order  of  Picae.  I am  going  to  read  you  a passage  from  Hum- 
boldt, which  shows  you  what  difficulties  one  may  get  into  for 
want  of  it. 

You  will  find  in  the  second  volume  of  his  personal  narrative, 
an  account  of  the  cave  of  Caripe  in  New  Andalusia,  which  is 
inhabited  by  entirely  nocturnal  birds,  having  the  gaping 
mouths  of  the  goat-sucker  and  the  swallow,  and  yet  feeding 
on  fruit. 

Unless,  which  Mr.  Humboldt  does  not  tell  us,  they  sit 
under  the  trees  outside,  in  the  night  time,  and  hold  their 
mouths  open,  for  the  berries  to  drop  into,  there  is  not  the 
smallest  occasion  for  their  having  wide  mouths,  like  swallows. 
Still  less  is  there  any  need,  since  they  are  fruit  eaters,  for 
their  living  in  a cavern  1,500  feet  out  of  daylight.  They  have 
only,  in  consequence,  the  trouble  of  carrying  in  the  seeds  to 
feed  their  young,  and  the  floor  of  the  cave  is  thus  covered,  by 
the  seeds  they  let  fall,  with  a growth  of  unfortunate  pale 
plants,  which  have  never  seen  day.  Nay,  they  are  not  even 
content  with  the  darkness  of  their  cave ; but  build  their  nests 
in  the  funnels  with  which  the  roof  of  the  grotto  is  pierced  like 
a sieve  ; live  actually  in  the  chimney,  not  of  a house,  but  of  an 
Egyptian  sepulchre  ! The  colour  of  this  bird,  of  so  remark- 
able taste  in  lodging,  Humboldt  tells  us,  is  “of  dark  bluish- 
grey,  mixed  with  streaks  and  specks  of  black.  Large  white 
spots,  which  have  the  form  of  a heart,  and  which  are  bordered 


TEE  SWALLOW. 


187 


with  black,  mark  the  head,  the  wings,  and  the  tail.  The 
spread  of  the  wings,  which  are  composed  of  seventeen  or 
eighteen  quill  feathers,  is  three  feet  and  a half.  Suppressing, 
with  Mr.  Cuvier,  the  order  of  Picae,  we  must  refer  this  ex- 
traordinary bird  to  the  Sparrows” 

56.  We  can  only  suppose  that  it  must  be,  to  our  popular 
sparrows,  what  the  swallow  of  the  cinnamon  country  is  to  our 
subordinate  swallow.  Do  you  recollect  the  cinnamon  swal- 
lows of  Herodotus,  who  build  their  mud  nests  in  the  faces  of 
the  cliffs  where  Dionusos  was  brought  up,  and  where  nobody 
can  get  near  them  ; and  how  the  cinnamon  merchants  fetch 
them  joints  of  meat,  which  the  unadvised  birds,  flying  up  to 
their  nests  with,  instead  of  cinnamon, — nest  and  all  come  down 
together,  the  original  of  Sindbad’s  valley-of- diamond  story  ? 

57.  Well,  Humboldt  is  reduced,  by  necessities  of  recent 
classification,  to  call  a bird  three  feet  and  a half  across  the 
wings,  a sparrow.  I have  no  right  to  laugh  at  him,  for  I am 
just  going,  myself,  to  call  the  cheerfullest  and  brightest  of 
birds  of  the  air,  an  owl.  All  these  architectural  and  sepul- 
chral habits,  these  Egyptian  manners  of  the  sand-martin,  dig- 
ging caves  in  the  sand,  and  border-trooper’s  habits  of  the 
chimney  swallow,  living  in  round  towers  instead  of  open  air, 
belong  to  them  as  connected  with  the  tribe  of  the  falcons 
through  the  owls  ! and  not  only  so,  but  with  the  mammalia 
through  the  bats  ! A swallow  is  an  emancipated  owl,  and  a 
glorified  bat ; but  it  never  forgets  its  fellowship  with  night. 

58.  Its  ancient  fellowship,  I had  nearly  written  ; so  natural 
is  it  to  think  of  these  similarly-minded  creatures,  when  the 
feelings  that  both  show  are  evidently  useless  to  one  of  them, 
as  if  the  inferior  had  changed  into  the  higher.  The  doctrine 
of  development  seems  at  first  to  explain  all  so  pleasantly,  that 
the  scream  of  consent  with  which  it  has  been  accepted  by 
men  of  science,  and  the  shriller  vociferation  of  the  public’s 
gregarious  applause,  scarcely  permit  you  the  power  of  antag- 
onist reflection.  I must  justify  to-day,  in  graver  tone  than 
usual,  the  terms  in  which  I have  hitherto  spoken, — it  may 
have  been  thought  with  less  than  the  due  respect  to  my  audi- 
ence,— of  the  popular  theory. 


188 


LOVE'S  MEINIE \ 


59.  Supposing  that  the  octohedrons  of  galena,  of  gold,  and 
of  oxide  of  iron,  were  endowed  with  powers  of  reproduction, 
and  perished  at  appointed  dates  of  dissolution  or  solution, 
you  would  without  any  doubt  have  heard  it  by  this  time  as- 
serted that  the  octohedric  form,  which  was  common  to  all, 
indicated  their  descent  from  a common  progenitor ; and  it 
would  have  been  ingeniously  explained  to  you  how  the  angu- 
lar offspring  of  this  eight-sided  ancestor  had  developed  them- 
selves, by  force  of  circumstances,  into  their  distinct  metallic 
perfections  ; how  the  galena  had  become  grey  and  brittle 
under  prolonged  subterranean  heat,  and  the  gold  yellow  and 
ductile,  as  it  was  rolled  among  the  pebbles  of  amber-coloured 
streams. 

60.  By  the  denial  to  these  structures  of  any  individually 
reproductive  energy,  you  are  forced  to  accept  the  inexplicable 
(and  why  expect  it  to  be  otherwise  than  inexplicable  ?)  fact, 
of  the  formation  of  a series  of  bodies  having  very  similar 
aspects,  qualities,  and  chemical  relations  to  other  substances, 
which  yet  have  no  connection  whatever  with  each  other,  and 
are  governed,  in  their  relation  with  their  native  rocks,  by 
entirely  arbitrary  laws.  It  has  been  the  pride  of  modem 
chemistry  to  extricate  herself  from  the  vanity  of  the  alchemist, 
and  to  admit,  with  resignation,  the  independent,  though  ap- 
parently fraternal,  natures,  of  silver,  of  lead,  of  platinum, — 
aluminium, — potassium.  Hence,  a rational  philosophy  would 
deduce  the  probability  that  when  the  arborescence  of  dead 
crystallization  rose  into  the  radiation  of  the  living  tree,  and 
sentient  plume,  the  splendour  of  nature  in  her  more  exalted 
power  would  not  be  restricted  to  a less  variety  of  design  ; and 
the  beautiful  caprice  in  which  she  gave  to  the  silver  its  frost, 
and  to  the  opal  its  fire,  would  not  be  subdued  under  the  slow 
influences  of  accident  and  time,  when  she  wreathed  the  swan 
with  snow,  and  bathed  the  dove  in  iridescence.  That  the 
infinitely  more  exalted  powers  of  life  must  exercise  more  inti- 
mate influence  over  matter  than  the  reckless  forces  of  cohe- 
sion ; — and  that  the  loves  and  hatreds  of  the  now  conscious 
creatures  would  modify  their  forms  into  parallel  beauty  and 
degradation,  we  might  have  anticipated  by  reason,  and  we 


TEE  SWALLOW. 


189 


ought  long  since  to  have  known  by  observation.  But  this 
law  of  its  spirit  over  the  substance  of  the  creature  involves, 
necessarily,  the  indistinctness  of  its  type,  and  the  existence  of 
inferior  and  of  higher  conditions,  which  whole  seras  of  hero- 
ism and  affection — whole  seras  of  misery  and  misconduct,  con- 
firm into  glory,  or  confuse  into  shame.  Collecting  the  causes 
of  changed  form,  in  lower  crea-tures,  by  distress,  or  by  adapta- 
tion,— by  the  disturbance  or  intensifying  of  the  parental 
strength,  and  the  native  fortune — the  wonder  is,  not  that 
species  should  sometimes  be  confused,  but  that  the  greater 
number  of  them  remain  so  splendidly,  so  manifestly,  so  eter- 
nally distinct ; and  that  the  vile  industries  and  vicious  curios- 
ities of  modern  science,  while  they  have  robbed  the  fields  of 
England  of  a thousand  living  creatures,  have  not  created  in 
them  one. 

61.  But  even  in  the  paltry  knowledge  we  have  obtained, 
what  unanimity  have  we  ? — what  security  ? Suppose  any  man 
of  ordinary  sense,  knowing  the  value  of  time,  and  the  relative 
importance  of  subjects  of  thought,  and  that  the  whole  scientific 
world  was  agog  concerning  the  origin  of  species,  desired  to 
know  first  of  all — what  was  meant  by  a species. 

He  would  naturally  look  for  the  definition  of  species  first 
among  the  higher  animals,  and  expect  it  to  be  best  defined 
in  those  which  were  best  known.  And  being  referred  for 
satisfaction  to  the  226th  page  of  the  first  volume  of  Mr.  Dar- 
win’s “Descent  of  Man,”  he  would  find  this  passage  : — 

“ Man  has  been  studied  more  carefully  than  any  other 
organic  being,  and  yet  there  is  the  greatest  possible  diversity 
among  capable  judges,  whether  he  should  be  classed  as  a sin- 
gle species  or  race,  or  as  two  (Virey),  as  three  (Jacquinot), 
as  four  (Kant),  five  (Blumenbacli),  six  (Buffon),  seven  (Hunter), 
eight  (Agassiz),  eleven  (Pickering),  fifteen  (BorySt.  Vincent), 
sixteen  (Desmoulins),  twenty-two  (Morton),  sixty  (Crawford), 
or  as  sixty-three  according  to  Burke.” 

And  in  the  meantime,  while  your  men  of  science  are  thus 
vacillating,  in  the  definition  of  the  species  of  the  only  animal 
they  have  the  opportunity  of  studying  inside  and  out,  between 
one  and  sixty-three  ; and  disputing  about  the  origin,  in  past 


190 


LOVE'S  ME1NIE. 


ages,  of  what  they  cannot  define  in  the  present  one  ; and  de- 
ciphering the  filthy  heraldries  which  record  the  relation  of 
humanity  to  the  ascidian  and  the  crocodile,  you  have  ceased 
utterly  to  distinguish  between  the  two  species  of  man,  ever- 
more separate  by  infinite  separation  : of  whom  the  one,  capa- 
ble of  loyalty  and  of  love,  can  at  least  conceive  spiritual 
natures  which  have  no  taint  from  their  own,  and  leave  behind 
them,  diffused  among  thousands  on  earth,  the  happiness  they 
never  hoped,  for  themselves,  in  the  skies  ; and  the  other, 
capable  only  of  avarice,  hatred,  and  shame,  who  in  their  lives 
are  the  companions  of  the  swine,  and  leave  in  death  nothing 
but  food  for  the  worm  and  the  vulture. 

62.  Now  I have  first  traced  for  you  the  relations  of  the 
creature  we  are  examining  to  those  beneath  it  and  above,  to 
the  bat  and  to  the  falcon.  But  you  will  find  that  it  has 
still  others  to  entirely  another  world,  As  you  watch  it  glance 
and  skim  over  the  surface  of  the  waters,  has  it  never  struck 
you  what  relation  it  bears  to  the  creatures  that  glance  and 
glide  under  their  surface  ? Fly-catchers,  some  of  them,  also, 
— fly-catchers  in  the  same  manner,  with  wide  mouth  ; while 
in  motion  the  bird  almost  exactly  combines  the  dart  of  the 
trout  with  the  dash  of  the  dolphin,  to  the  rounded  forehead 
and  projecting  muzzle  of  which  its  own  bullet  head  and  bill 
exactly  correspond.  In  its  plunge,  if  you  watch  it  bathing, 
yon  may  see  it  dip  its  breast  just  as  much  under  the  water  as 
a porpoise  shows  its  back  above.  You  can  only  rightly  de- 
scribe the  bird  by  the  resemblances,  and  images  of  what  it 
seems  to  have  changed  from, — then  adding  the  fantastic  and 
beautiful  contrast  of  the  unimaginable  change.  It  is  an  owl 
that  has  been  trained  by  the  Graces.  It  is  a bat  that  loves 
the  morning  light.  It  is  the  aerial  reflection  of  a dolphin. 
It  is  the  tender  domestication  of  a trout. 

63.  And  yet  be  assured,  as  it  cannot  have  been  all  these 
creatures,  so  it  has  never,  in  truth,  been  any  of  them.  The 
transformations  believed  in  by  the  mythologists  are  at  least 
spiritually  true  ; you  cannot  too  carefully  trace  or  too  accu- 
rately consider  them.  But  the  transformations  believed  in 
by  the  anatomist  are  as  yet  proved  true  in  no  single  instance, 


THE  SWALLOW. 


191 


and  in  no  substance,  spiritual  or  material  ; and  I cannot  too 
often,  or  too  earnestly,  urge  you  not  to  waste  your  time  in 
guessing  what  animals  may  once  have  been,  while  you  remain 
in  nearly  total  ignorance  of  what  they  are. 

64.  Do  you  even  know  distinctly  from  each  other, — (for 
that  is  the  real  naturalist’s  business  ; instead  of  confounding 
them  with  each  other), — do  you  know  distinctly  the  five  great 
species  of  this  familiar  bird  ?— the  swallow,  the  house-martin, 
the  sand-martin,  the  swift,  and  the  Alpine  swift?— or  can  you 
so  much  as  answer  the  first  question  which  would  suggest  it- 
self to  any  careful  observer  of  the  form  of  its  most  familiar 
species, — yet  which  I do  not  find  proposed,  far  less  answered, 
in  any  scientific  book, — namely,  why  a swallow  has  a swallow- 
tail? 

It  is  true  that  the  tail  feathers  in  many  birds  appear  to  be 
entirely,— even  cumbrously,  decorative;  as  in  the  peacock, 
and  birds  of  paradise.  But  I am  confident  that  it  is  not  so 
in  the  swallow,  and  that  the  forked  tail,  so  defined  in  form 
and  strong  in  plume,  has  indeed  important  functions  in  guid- 
ing the  flight ; yet  notice  how  surrounded  one  is  on  all  sides 
with  pitfalls  for  the  theorists.  The  forked  tail  reminds  you 
at  once  of  a fish  s ; and  yet,  the  action  of  the  two  creatures  is 
wholly  contrary.  A fish  lashes  himself  forward  with  his  tail, 
and  steers  with  his  fins  ; a swallow  lashes  himself  forward 
with  his  fins,  and  steers  with  his  tail ; partly,  not  necessarily, 
because  in  the  most  dashing  of  the  swallows,  the  swift,  the 
folk  of  the  tail  is  the  least  developed.  And  I never  watch 
the  bird  for  a moment  without  finding  myself  in  some  fresh 
puzzle  out  of  which  there  is  no  clue  in  the  scientific  books. 

I want  to  know,  for  instance,  how  the  bird  turns.  What 
does  it  do  with  one  wing,  what  with  the  other?  Fancy  the 
pace  that  has  to  be  stopped  ; the  force  of  bridle-hand  put  out 
in  an  instant.  Fancy  how  the  wings  must  bend  with  the 
strain  ; what  need  there  must  be  for  the  perfect  aid  and  work 
of  every  feather  in  them.  There  is  a problem  for  you,  stu- 
dents of  mechanics, — How  does  a swallow  turn  ? 

You  shall  see,  at  all  events,  to  begin  with,  to-day,  how  it 
gets  along. 


192 


LOVE'S  MEIN  IE. 


65.  I say  you  shall  see ; but  indeed  you  have  often  seen, 
and  felt,— at  least  with  your  hands,  if  not  with  your  shoul- 
ders,— when  you  chanced  to  be  holding  the  sheet  of  a saiL 

I have  said  that  I never  got  into  scrapes  by  blaming  people 
wrongly  ; but  I often  do  by  praising  them  wrongly.  I never 
praised,  without  qualification,  but  one  scientific  book  in  my 
life  (that  I remember)— this  of  Dr.  Pettigrew’s  on  the  Wing  ;* 
— and  now  I must  qualify  my  praise  considerably,  discover- 
ing, when  I examined  the  book  farther,  that  the  good  doctor 
had  described  the  motion  of  a bird  as  resembling  that  of  a 
kite,  without  ever  inquiring  what,  in  a bird,  represented  that 
somewhat  important  part  of  a kite,  the  string.  You  will, 
however,  find  the  book  full  of  important  observations,  and 
illustrated  by  valuable  drawings.  But  the  point  in  question 

* “ On  the  Physiology  of  Wings.”  Transactions  of  the  Royal  Society 
of  Edinburgh.  Yol.  xxvi. , Part  iL  I cannot  sufficiently  express  either 
my  wonder  or  regret  at  the  petulance  in  which  men  of  science  are  con- 
tinually tempted  into  immature  publicity,  by  their  rivalship  with  each 
other.  Page  after  page  of  this  hook,  which,  slowly  digested  and  taken 
counsel  upon,  might  have  been  a noble  contribution  to  natural  history, 
is  occupied  with  dispute  utterly  useless  to  the  reader,  on  the  question 
of  the  priority  of  the  author,  by  some  months,  to  a French  savant,  in 
the  statement  of  a principle  which  neither  has  yet  proved ; while  page 
after  page  is  rendered  worse  than  useless  to  the  reader  by  the  author’s 
passionate  endeavour  to  contradict  the  ideas  of  unquestionably  previous 
investigators.  The  problem  of  flight  was,  to  all  serious  purpose,  solved 
by  Borelli  in  1680,  and  the  following  passage  is  very  notable  as  an  ex- 
ample of  the  way  in  which  the  endeavour  to  obscure  the  light  of  former 
ages  too  fatally  dims  and  distorts  that  by  which  modern  men  of  science 
walk,  themselves.  **  Borelli,  and  all  who  have  written  since  his  time, 
are  unanimous  in  affirming  that  the  horizontal  transference  of  the  body 
of  the  bird  is  due  to  the  perpendicular  vibration  of  the  wings,  and  to 
the  yielding  of  the  posterior  or  flexible  margins  of  the  wings  in  an  up- 
ward direction,  as  the  wings  descend.  I”  (Dr.  .Pettigrew)  “ am,  how- 
ever, disposed  to  attribute  it  to  the  fact  (1st),  that  the  wings , both  when 
elevated  and  depressed,  leap  forwards  in  curves,  those  curves  uniting  to 
form  a continuous  waved  track  ; (2nd),  to  the  tendency  which  the  body 
of  the  bird  has  to  vicing  forwards,  in  a more  or  less  horizontal  direction, 
when  once  set  in  motion  ; (3rd),  to  the  construction  of  the  wings ; they 
are  elastic  helices  or  screws,  which  twist  and  untwist  while  they  vibrate, 
and  tend  to  bear  upwards  and  onwards  any  weight  suspended  from  them  ; 
(4th),  to  the  reaction  of  the  air  on  the  under  surfaces  of  the  wings ; (5th), 


TEE  SWALLOW. 


193 


you  must  settle  for  yourselves,  and  you  easily  may.  Some  of 
you,  perhaps,  knew,  in  your  time,  better  than  the  doctor, 
how  a kite  stopped  ; but  I do  not  doubt  that  a great  many  of 
you  also  know,  now,  what  is  much  more  to  the  purpose,  how 
a ship  gets  along.  I will  take  the  simplest,  the  most  natural, 
the  most  beautiful  of  sails, — the  lateen  sail  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean. 

66.  I draw  it  rudely  in  outline,  as  it  would  be  set  for  a 
side-wind  on  the  boat  you  probably  know  best, — the  boat  of 
burden  on  the  Lake  of  Geneva  (Fig.  3),  not  confusing  the 
drawing  by  adding  the  mast,  which,  you  know,  rakes  a little, 
carrying  the  yard  across  it.  (a).  Then,  with  your  permis- 
sion, I will  load  my  boat  thus,  with  a few  casks  of  Vevay 
vintage — and,  to  keep  them  cool,  we  will  put  an  awning  over 

to  the  ever-varying  power  with  which  the  wings  are  urged,  this  being 
greatest  at  the  beginning  of  the  down-stroke,  and  least  at  the  end  of 
the  up  one  ; (Gth),  to  the  contraction  of  the  voluntary  muscles  and  elastic 
ligaments,  and  to  the  effect  produced  by  the  various  inclined  surfaces 
formed  by  the  wings  during  their  oscillations  ; (7th),  to  the  weight  of 
the  bird — weight  itself,  when  acting  upon  wings,  becoming  a propelling 
power,  and  so  contributing  to  horizontal  motion.’* 

I will  collect  these  seven  reasons  for  the  forward  motion,  in  the  gist 
of  them,  which  I have  marked  by  italics,  that  the  reader  may  better 
judge  of  their  collective  value.  The  bird  is  carried  forward,  according 
to  Dr.  Pettigrew — 

1.  Because  its  wings  leap  forward. 

2.  Because  its  body  has  a tendency  to  swing  forward. 

3.  Because  the  wings  are  screws  so  constructed  as  to  screw  upwards 

and  onwards  any  body  suspended  from  them. 

4.  Because  the  air  reacts  on  the  under  surfaces  of  the  wings. 

5.  Because  the  wings  are  urged  with  ever-varying  power. 

6.  Because  the  voluntary  muscles  contract. 

7.  Because  the  bird  is  heavy. 

What  must  be  the  general  conditions  of  modern  science,  when  it  is 
possible  for  a man  of  great  experimental  knowledge  and  practical  in- 
genuity, to  publish  nonsense  such  as  this,  becoming,  to  all  intents  and 
purposes,  insane,  in  the  passion  of  his  endeavour  to  overthrow  the 
statements  of  his  rival  ? Had  he  merely  taken  patience  to  consult  any 
elementary  scholar  in  dynamics,  he  would  have  been  enabled  to  under- 
stand his  own  machines,  and  develop,  with  credit  to  himself,  what  had 
been  rightly  judged  or  noticed  by  others. 


194 


LOVE'S  MEIN1E. 


them,  so  ( b ).  Next,  as  we  are  classical  scholars,  instead  of  this 
rustic  stem  of  the  boat,  meant  only  to  run  easily  on  a flat 
shore,  we  will  give  it  an  Attic  t/xfioXov  (c).  (We  have  no  busi- 
ness, indeed,  yet,  to  put  an  €/a/3oXo v on  a boat  of  burden,  but 
I hope  some  day  to  see  all  our  ships  of  war  loaded  with  bread 
and  wine,  instead  of  artillery.)  Then  I shade  the  entire  form 
(c) ; and,  lastly,  reflect  it  in  the  water  ( d ) — and  you  have  seen 
something  like  that  before,  besides  a boat,  haven’t  you  ? 


a b c 


d 

Fig.  3. 


There  is  the  gist  of  the  whole  business  for  you,  put  in  very 
small  space  ; with  these  only  differences : in  a boat,  the  air 
strikes  the  sail  ; in  a bird,  the  sail  strikes  the  air : in  a boat, 
the  force  is  lateral,  and  in  a bird  downwards  ; and  it  has  its 
sail  on  both  sides.  I shall  leave  you  to  follow  out  the 
mechanical  problem  for  yourselves,  as  far  as  the  mere  resolu- 


TEE  SWALLOW. 


195 


tion  of  force  is  concerned.  My  business,  as  a painter,  is 
only  with  the  exquisite  organic  weapon  that  deals  with  it. 

67.  Of  which  you  are  now  to  note  farther,  that  a bird  is 
required  to  manage  his  wing  so  as  to  obtain  two  results  with 
one  blow : — he  has  to  keep  himself  up,  as  well  as  to  get 
along. 

But  observe,  he  only  requires  to  keep  himself  up  because 
he  has  to  get  along.  The  buoyancy  might  have  been  given  at 
once,  if  nature  had  wanted  that  only  ; she  might  have  blown 
the  feathers  up  with  the  hot  air  of  the  breath,  till  the  bird 
rose  in  air  like  a cork  in  water.  But  it  has  to  be,  not  a 
buoyant  cork,  but  a buoyant  bullet.  And  therefore  that  it  may 
have  momentum  for  pace,  it  must  have  weight  to  carry ; and 
to  carry  that  weight,  the  wings  must  deliver  their  blow  with 
effective  vertical,  as  well  as  oblique,  force. 

Here,  again,  you  may  take  the  matter  in  brief  sum.  What- 
ever is  the  ship’s  loss  is  the  bird’s  gain  ; whatever  tendency 
the  ship  has  to  leeway,  is  all  given  to  the  bird’s  support,  so 
that  every  atom  * of  force  in  the  blow  is  of  service. 

68.  Therefore  you  have  to  construct  your  organic  weapon, 
so  that  this  absolutely  and  perfectly  economized  force  may  be 
distributed  as  the  bird  chooses  at  any  moment.  That,  if  it 
wants  to  rise,  it  may  be  able  to  strike  vertically  more  than 
obliquely ; — if  the  order  is,  go  a-head,  that  it  may  put  the 
oblique  screw  on.  If  it  wants  to  stop  in  an  instant,  that  it 
may  be  able  to  throw  its  wings  up  full  to  the  wind ; if  it 
wants  to  hover,  that  it  may  be  able  to  lay  itself  quietly  on  the 
wind  with  its  wings  and  tail,  or,  in  calm  air,  to  regulate  their 
vibration  and  expansion  into  tranquillity  of  gliding,  or  of 
pausing  power.  Given  the  various  proportions  of  weight  and 
wing ; the  conditions  of  possible  increase  of  muscular  force 
and  quill-strength  in  proportion  to  size ; and  the  different 
objects  and  circumstances  of  flight, — you  have  a series  of  ex- 
quisitely complex  problems,  and  exquisitely  perfect  solutions, 
which  the  life  of  the  youngest  among  you  cannot  be  long 

* I don  t know  what  word  to  use  for  an  infinitesimal  degree  or  divided 
portion  of  force : one  can’t  properly  speak  of  a force  being  cut  into 
pieces ; but  I can  think  of  no  other  word  than  atom. 


196 


LOVE'S  MEINIE. 


enough  to  read  through  so  much  as  once,  and  of  which 
the  future  infinitudes  of  human  life,  however  granted  or  ex- 
tended, never  will  be  fatigued  in  admiration. 

69.  I take  the  rude  outline  of  sail  in  Fig.  3,  and  now  con 
sidering  it  as  a jib  of  one  of  our  own  sailing  vessels,  slightly 
exaggerate  the  loops  at  the  edge,  and  draw  curved  lines  from 

them  to  the  opposite  point,  Fig.  4 ; and  I have 
a reptilian  or  dragon’s  wing,  which  would, 
with  some  ramification  of  the  supporting  ribs, 
become  a bat’ s or  moth’s ; that  is  to  say,  an 
extension  of  membrane  between  the  ribs  (as 
in  an  umbrella),  which  will  catch  the  wind, 
and  flutter  upon  it,  like  a leaf ; but  cannot 
strike  it  to  any  purpose.  The  flying  squirrel 
drifts  like  a falling  leaf ; the  bat  flits  like  a 
black  rag  torn  at  the  edge.  To  give  power, 
we  must  have  plumes  that  can  strike,  as  with 
the  flat  of  a sword-blade  ; and  to  give  perfect 
power,  these  must  be  laid  over  each  other,  so 
that  each  may  support  the  one  below  it.  I use 
the  word  below  advisedly : we  have  to  strike 
down.  The  lowest  feather  is  the  one  that  first  meets  the  ad- 
verse force.  It  is  the  one  to  be  supported. 

Now  for  the  manner  of  the  support.  You  must  all  know 
well  the  look  of  the  machicolated  parapets  in  mediaeval  cas- 
tles. You  know  they  are  carried  on  rows  of  small  projecting 
buttresses  constructed  so  that,  though  the  uppermost  stone, 
far-projecting,  would  break  easily  under  any  shock,  it  is  sup- 
ported by  the  next  below,  and  so  on,  down  to  the  wall.  Now 
in  this  figure  I am  obliged  to  separate  the  feathers  by  white 
spaces,  to  show  you  them  distinctly.  In  reality  they  are  set 
as  close  to  each  other  as  can  be,  but  putting  them  as 
close  as  I can,  you  get  a or  b,  Fig.  5,  for  the  rough  section 
of  the  wing,  thick  towards  the  bird’s  head,  and  curved  like  a 
sickle,  so  that  in  striking  down  it  catches  the  air,  like  a reap- 
ing-hook, and  in  rising  up,  it  throws  off  the  air  like  a pent- 
house. 

70.  The  stroke  would  therefore  be  vigorous,  and  the  re 


THE  SWALLOW. 


197 


covery  almost  effortless,  were  even  the  direction  of  both  actu- 
ally vertical.  But  they  are  vertical  only  with  relation  to  the 
bird’s  body.  In  space  they  follow  the  forward  flight,  in  a 
softly  curved  line  ; the  downward  stroke  being  as  effective  as 
the  bird  chooses,  the  recovery  scarcely  encounters  resistance 
in  the  softly  gliding  ascent.  Thus,  in  Fig.  5,  (I  can  only  ex- 
plain this  to  readers  a little  versed  in  the  elements  of  mechan- 
ics,)  if  b is  the  locus  of  the  centre  of  gravity  of  the  bird, 
moving  in  slow  flight  in  the  direction  of  the  arrow,  w is  the 
locus  of  the  leading  feather  of  its  wing,  and  a and  b , roughly, 
the  successive  positions  of  the  wing  in  the  down-stroke  and 
recovery. 


> 

Fig.  5. 

71.  I say  the  down-stroke  is  as  effective  as  the  bird  chooses  ; 
that  is  to  say,  it  can  be  given  with  exactly  the  quantity  of  im- 
pulse, and  exactly  the  quantity  of  supporting  power,  required 
at  the  moment.  Thus,  when  the  bird  wants  to  fly  slowly,  the 
wings  are  fluttered  fast,  giving  vertical  blows  ; if  it  wants  to 
pause  absolutely  in  still  air,  (this  large  birds  cannot  do,  not  be- 
ing able  to  move  their  wings  fast  enough,)  the  velocity  becomes 
vibration,  as  in  the  humming-bird  : but  if  there  is  wind,  any  of 
the  larger  birds  can  lay  themselves  on  it  like  a kite,  their  own 
weight  answering  the  purpose  of  the  string,  while  they  keep 
the  wings  and  tail  in  an  inclined  plane,  giving  them  as  much 
gliding  ascent  as  counteracts  the  fall.  They  nearly  all,  how- 
ever, use  some  slightly  gliding  force  at  the  same  time  ; a single 
stroke  of  the  wing,  with  forward  intent,  seeming  enough  to 
enable  them  to  glide  on  for  half  a minute  or  more  without 
stirring  a plume.  A circling  eagle  floats  an  inconceivable  time 
without  visible  stroke : (fancy  the  pretty  action  of  the  inner 
wing,  backing  air  instead  of  water,  which  gives  exactly  the 


198 


LOVE'S  HEIN  IE. 


breadth  of  circle  he  chooses).  But  for  exhibition  of  the  com- 
plete  art  of  flight,  a swallow  on  rough  water  is  the  master  of 
masters.  A seagull,  with  all  its  splendid  power,  generally  has 
its  work  cut  out  for  it,  and  is  visibly  fighting ; but  the  swal- 
low plays  with  wind  and  wave  as  a girl  plays  with  her  fan,  and 

there  are  no  words  to  say 
how  many  things  it  does 
with  its  wings  in  any  ten 
seconds,  and  does  consum- 
mately. The  mystery  of 
its  dart  remains  always  in- 
explicable to  me  ; no  eye 
can  trace  the  bending  of 
bow  that  sends  that  living 
arrow. 

But  the  main  structure 
of  the  noble  weapon  we 
may  with  little  pains  un- 
derstand. 

72.  In  the  sections  a 
and  b of  Fig.  5,  I have 
only  represented  the  quills 
of  the  outer  part  of  the 
wing.  The  relation  of 
these,  and  of  the  inner 
quills,  to  the  bird’s  body 
may  be  very  simply  shown. 

Fig.  6 is  a rude  sketch, 
typically  representing  the 
wing  of  any  bird,  but 
actually  founded  chiefly 
on  the  seagull’s. 

It  is  broadly  composed 
of  two  fans,  a and  b.  The  outmost  fan,  a,  is  carried  by  the 
bird’s  hand  ; of  which  I rudely  sketch  the  contour  of  the  bones 
at  a.  The  innermost  fan,  b,  is  carried  by  the  bird’s  fore-arm, 
from  wrist  to  elbow,  b. 

The  strong  humerus,  c,  corresponding  to  our  arm  from 


TEE  SWALLOW. 


199 


shoulder  to  elbow,  has  command  of  the  whole  instrument. 
No  feathers  are  attached  to  this  bone  ; but  covering  and  pro- 
tecting ones  are  set  in  the  skin  of  it,  completely  filling,  when 
the  active  wing  is  open,  the  space  between  it  and  the  body. 
But  the  plumes  of  the  two  great  fans,  a and  b,  are  set  into  the 
bones ; in  Fig.  8,  farther  on,  are  shown  the  projecting  knobs 
on  the  main  arm  bone,  set  for  the  reception  of  the  quills, 
which  make  it  look  like  the  club  of  Hercules.  The  connection 
of  the  still  more  powerful  quills  of  the  outer  fan  with  the 
bones  of  the  hand  is  quite  beyond  all  my  poor  anatomical 
perceptions,  and,  happily  for  me,  also  beyond  needs  of  artistic 
investigation. 


Fig.  7. 


73.  The  feathers  of  the  fan  a are  called  the  primaries.  Those 
of  the  fan  b,  secondaries.  Effective  actions  of  flight,  whether 
for  support  or  forward  motion,  are,  I believe,  all  executed  with 
the  primaries,  every  one  of  which  may  be  briefly  described  as 
the  strongest  scymitar  that  can  be  made  of  quill  substance ; 
flexible  within  limits,  and  elastic  at  its  edges — carried  by  an 
elastic  central  shaft — twisted  like  a windmill  sail — striking 
with  the  flat,  and  recovering  with  the  edge. 

The  secondary  feathers  are  more  rounded  at  the  ends,  and 
frequently  notched  ; their  curvature  is  reversed  to  that  of  the 
primaries ; they  are  arranged,  when  expanded,  somewhat  in 
the  shape  of  a shallow  cup,  with  the  hollow  of  it  downwards, 
holding  the  air  therefore,  and  aiding  in  all  the  pause  and 
buoyancy  of  flight,  but  little  in  the  activity  of  it.  Essentially 
they  are  the  brooding  and  covering  feathers  of  the  wing ; ex- 


A\j\j 


LOVE'S  MEINIE. 


quisitely  beautiful — as  far  as  I have  yet  seen,  most  beautiful 
— in  the  bird  whose  brooding  is  of  most  use  to  us  ; and  which 
has  become  the  image  of  all  tenderness.  “How  often  would 
I have  gathered  thy  children  . . . and  ye  would  not.” 

74.  Over  these  two  chief  masses  of  the  plume  are  set  others 
which  partly  complete  their  power,  partly  adorn  and  protect 


them  ; but  of  these  I can  take  no  notice  at  present.  All  that 
I want  you  to  understand  is  the  action  of  the  two  main  masses, 
as  the  wing  is  opened  and  closed. 

Fig.  7 roughly  represents  the  upper  surface  of  the  main 
feathers  of  the  wing  closed.  The  secondaries  are  folded  over 
the  primaries ; and  the  primaries  shut  up  close,  with  their 


THE  SWALLOW. 


201 


outer  edges  parallel,  or  nearly  so.  Fig.  8 roughly  shows  the 
outline  of  the  bones,  in  this  position,  of  one  of  the  larger 
pigeons.* 

75.  Then  Fig.  9 is  (always  sketched  in  the  roughest  way) 
the  outer,  Fig.  10  the  inner,  surface  of  a seagull’s  wing  in  this 
position.  Next,  Fig.  11  shows  the  tops  of  the  four  lowest 
feathers  in  Fig.  9,  in  mere  outline  ; a separate  (pulled  off,  so 
that  they  can  be  set  side  by  side),  b shut  up  close  in  the  folded 
wing,  c opened  in  the  spread  wing. 


Fig.  9. 


76.  And  now,  if  you  will  yourselves  watch  a few  birds  in 
flight,  or  opening  and  closing  their  wings  to  prune  them,  you 
will  soon  know  as  much  as  is  needful  for  our  art  purposes  ; 
and,  which  is  far  more  desirable,  feel  how  very  little  we  know, 
to  any  purpose,  of  even  the  familiar  creatures  that  are  our 
companions. 

Even  what  we  have  seen  to-day  f is  more  than  appears  to 

* I find  even  this  mere  outline  of  anatomical  structure  so  interferes 
with  the  temper  in  which  I wish  my  readers  to  think,  that  I shall  with- 
draw it  in  my  complete  edition. 

f Large  and  somewhat  carefully  painted  diagrams  were  shown  at  the 
lecture,  which  I cannot  engrave  but  for  my  complete  edition. 


202 


LOVE'S  MEIN  IE. 


have  been  noticed  by  the  most  careful  painters  of  the  great 
schools  ; and  you  will  continually  fancy  that  I am  inconsistent 
with  myself  in  pressing  you  to  learn,  better  than  they,  the 
anatomy  of  birds,  while  I violently  and  constantly  urge  you 
to  refuse  the  knowledge  of  the  anatomy  of  men.  But  you 
will  find,  as  my  system  developes  itself,  that  it  is  absolutely 
consistent  throughout.  I don’t  mean,  by  telling  you  not  to 
study  human  anatomy,  that  you  are  not  to  know  how  many 
fingers  and  toes  you  have,  nor  how  you  can  grasp  and  walk 


Fig.  10. 


with  them  ; and,  similarly,  when  you  look  at  a bird,  I wish 
you  to  know  how  many  claws  and  wing-feathers  it  has,  and 
how  it  grips  and  flies  with  them.  Of  the  bones,  in  either.  I 
shall  show  you  little ; and  of  the  muscles,  nothing  but  what 
can  be  seen  in  the  living  creature,  nor,  often,  even  so  much. 

77.  And  accordingly,  when  I now  show  you  this  sketch  of 
my  favourite  Holbein,  and  tell  you  that  it  is  entirely  disgrace- 
ful he  should  not  know  what  a wing  was,  better, — I don’t 
mean  that  it  is  disgraceful  he  should  not  know  the  anatomy 
of  it,  but  that  he  should  never  have  looked  at  it  to  see  how 
the  feathers  lie. 


THE  SWALLOW. 


203 


Now  Holbein  paints  men  gloriously,  but  never  looks  at 
birds ; Gibbons,  the  woodcutter,  carves  birds,  but  can’t  men  ; 
—of  the  two  faults  the  last  is  the  worst ; but  the  right  is  in 


looking  at  the  whole  of  nature  in  due  comparison,  and  with 
universal  candour  and  tenderness. 

78.  At  the  whole  of  nature,  I say,  not  at  super-nature— at 


2C4 


LOVE'S  MEINIE. 


what  you  suppose  to  be  above  the  visible  nature  about  you. 
If  you  are  not  inclined  to  look  at  the  wings  of  birds,  which 
God  has  given  you  to  handle  and  to  see,  much  less  are  you  to 
contemplate,  or  draw  imaginations  of,  the  wings  of  angels, 
which  you  can’t  see.  Know  your  own  world  first — not  deny- 
ing any  other,  but  being  quite  sure  that  the  place  in  which 
you  are  now  put  is  the  place  with  which  you  are  now  con- 
cerned ; and  that  it  will  be  wiser  in  you  to  think  the  gods 
themselves  may  appear  in  the  form  of  a dove,  or  a swallow, 
than  that,  by  false  theft  from  the  form  of  dove  or  swallow, 
you  can  represent  the  aspect  of  gods. 

79.  One  sweet  instance  of  such  simple  conception,  in  the 
end  of  the  Odyssey,  must  surely  recur  to  your  minds  in  con- 
nection with  our  subject  of  to-day,  but  you  may  not  have  no- 
ticed the  recurrent  manner  in  which  Homer  insists  on  the 
thought.  When  Ulysses  first  bends  and  strings  his  bow,  the 
vibration  of  the  chord  is  shrill,  “ like  the  note  of  a swallow.” 
A poor  and  unwarlike  simile,  it  seems ! But  in  the  next 
book,  when  Ulysses  stands  with  his  bow  lifted,  and  Telem- 
achus  has  brought  the  lances,  and  laid  them  at  his  feet,  and 
Athena  comes  to  his  side  to  encourage  him, — do  you  recollect 
the  gist  of  her  speech?  “You  fought,” she  says,  “ nine  years 
for  the  sake  of  Helen,  and  for  another’s  house  : — now,  re- 
turned, after  all  those  wanderings,  and  under  your  own  roof, 
for  it,  and  its  treasures,  will  you  not  fight,  then?”  And 
she  herself  flies  up  to  the  house-roof,  and  thence,  in  the  form 
of  the  swallow , guides  the  arrows  of  vengeance  for  the  viola- 
tion of  the  sanctities  of  home. 

80.  To-day,  then,  I believe  verily  for  the  first  time,  I have 
been  able  to  put  before  you  some  means  of  guidance  to  un- 
derstand the  beauty  of  the  bird  which  lives  with  you  in  your 
own  houses,  and  which  purifies  for  you,  from  its  insect  pesti- 
lence, the  air  that  you  breathe.  Thus  the  sweet  domestic  thing 
has  done,  for  men,  at  least  these  four  thousand  years.  She 
has  been  their  companion,  not  of  the  home  merely,  but  of  the 
hearth,  and  the  threshold  ; companion  only  endeared  by  de- 
parture, and  showing  better  her  loving-kindness  by  her  faith- 
ful return.  Type  sometimes  of  the  stranger,  she  has  softened 


205 


THE  SWALLOW. 

us  to  hospitality  ; type  always  of  the  suppliant,  she  has  en- 
chanted us  to  mercy  ; and  in  her  feeble  presence,  the  coward- 
ice, or  the  wrath,  of  sacrilege  has  changed  into  the  fidelities  of 
sanctuary.  Herald  of  our  summer,  she  glances  through  our 
days  of  gladness  ; numberer  of  our  years,  she  would  teach  us 
to  apply  our  hearts  to  wisdom  ;-and  yet,  so  little  have  we  re- 
garded her,  that  this  very  day,  scarcely  able  to  gather  from 
all  I can  find  told  of  her  enough  to  explain  so  much  as  the 
unfolding  of  her  wings,  I can  tell  you  nothing  of  her  life- 
nothing  of  her  journeying  : I cannot  learn  how  she  builds,  nor 
how  she  chooses  the  place  of  her  wandering,  nor  how  she 
traces  the  path  of  her  return.  Eemaining  thus  blind  and 
careless  to  the  true  ministries  of  the  humble  creature  whom 
God  has  really  sent  to  serve  us,  we  in  our  pride,  thinking 
ourselves  surrounded  by  the  pursuivants  of  the  sky,  can  yet 
only  invest  them  with  majesty  by  giving  them  the  calm  of  the 
bird  s motion,  and  shade  of  the  bird’s  plume  : — and  after  all,  it 
is  well  for  us,  if,  when  even  for  God’s  best  mercies,  and  in  His 
temples  marble-built,  we  think  that,  - with  angels  and  arch- 
angels, and  all  the  company  of  Heaven,  we  laud  and  magnify 
His  glorious  name  ’’-well  for  us,  if  our  attempt  be  not°only 
an  insult,  and  His  ears  open  rather  to  the  inarticulate  and  un- 
intended praise,  of  “ the  Swallow,  twittering  from  her  straw- 
built  shed.” 


THE  RELATION  BETWEEN 

MICHAEL  ANGELO 

AND 

TINTORET 


SEVENTH  OF  THE  COURSE  OF  LECTURES  ON  SCULPTURE, 
DELIVERED  AT  OXFORD,  1870-71. 


I have  printed  this  Lecture  separately,  that  strangers  visiting 
the  Galleries  may  be  able  to  use  it  for  reference  to  the  draw- 
ings. But  they  must  observe  that  its  business  is  only  to 
point  out  what  is  to  be  blamed  in  Michael  Angelo,  and  that  it 
assumes  the  facts  of  his  power  to  be  generally  known.  Mr. 
Tyrwhitt  s statement  of  these,  in  his  “ Lectures  on  Christian 
Art,”  will  put  the  reader  into  possession  of  all  that  may  justly 
be  alleged  in  honour  of  him. 

Corpus  Christi  College,  1st  Mag,  1872. 


THE  RELATION 


BETWEEN 

MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  TINTORET. 


The  Seventh  of  the  Course  of  Lectures  on  Sculpture 
delivered  at  Oxford , 1870-71. 


In  preceding  lectures  on  sculpture  I have  included  references 
to  tlie  art  of  painting,  so  far  as  it  proposes  to  itself  the  same 
object  as  sculpture,  (idealization  of  form)  ; and  I have  chosen 
for  the  subject  of  our  closing  inquiry,  the  works  of  the  two 
masters  who  accomplished  or  implied  the  unity  of  these  arts. 
Tintoret  entirely  conceives  his  figures  as  solid  statues : sees 
them  in  his  mind  on  every  side  ; detaches  each  from  the  other 
by  imagined  air  and  light ; and  foreshortens,  interposes,  or 
involves  them,  as  if  they  were  pieces  of  clay  in  his  hand.  On 
the  contrary,  Michael  Angelo  conceives  his  sculpture  partly 
as  if  it  were  painted  ; and  using  (as  I told  you  formerly)  his 
pen  like  a chisel,  uses  also  his  chisel  like  a pencil ; is  some- 
times as  picturesque  as  Kembrandt,  and  sometimes  as  soft  as 
Correggio. 

It  is  of  him  chiefly  that  I shall  speak  to-day  ; both  because 
it  is  part  of  my  duty  to  the  strangers  here  present  to  indicate 
for  them  some  of  the  points  of  interest  in  the  drawings  form- 
ing part  of  the  University  collections  ; but  still  more,  because 
I must  not  allow  the  second  year  of  my  professorship  to  close, 
without  some  statement  of  the  mode  in  which  those  collec- 
tions may  be  useful  or  dangerous  to  my  pupils.  They  seem 
at  present  little  likely  to  be  either  ; for  since  I entered  on  my 


212 


TEE  RELATION  BETWEEN 


duties,  no  student  has  ever  asked  me  a single  question  re- 
specting these  drawings,  or,  so  far  as  I could  see,  taken  the 
slightest  interest  in  them. 

There  are  several  causes  for  this  which  might  be  obviated 
— there  is  one  which  cannot  be.  The  collection,  as  exhibited 
at  present,  includes  a number  of  copies  which  mimic  in  vari- 
ously injurious  ways  the  characters  of  Michael  Angelo’s  own 
work  ; and  the  series,  except  as  material  for  reference,  can  be 
of  no  practical  service  until  these  are  withdrawn,  and  placed 
by  themselves.  It  includes,  besides,  a number  of  original 
drawings  which  are  indeed  of  value  to  any  laborious  student 
of  Michael  Angelo’s  life  and  temper  ; but  wThich  owe  the 
greater  part  of  this  interest  to  their  being  executed  in  times 
of  sickness  or  indolence,  when  the  master,  however  strong, 
was  failing  in  his  purpose,  and,  however  diligent,  tired  of  his 
work.  It  will  be  enough  to  name,  as  an  example  of  this 
class,  the  sheet  of  studies  for  the  Medici  tombs,  No.  45,  in 
which  the  lowest  figure  is,  strictly  speaking,  neither  a study 
nor  a working  drawing,  but  has  either  been  scrawled  in  the 
feverish  languor  of  exhaustion,  which  cannot  escape  its  sub- 
ject of  thought  ; or,  at  best,  in  idly  experimental  addition  of 
part  to  part,  beginning  with  the  head,  and  fitting  muscle  af- 
ter muscle,  and  bone  after  bone  to  it,  thinking  of  their  place 
only,  not  their  proportion,  till  the  head  is  only  about  one 
twentieth  part  of  the  height  of  the  body  : finally,  something 
between  a face  and  a mask  is  blotted  in  the  upper  left-hand 
corner  of  the  paper,  indicative,  in  the  weakness  and  frightful- 
ness of  it,  simply  of  mental  disorder  from  overwork ; and 
there  are  several  others  of  this  kind,  among  even  the  better 
drawings  of  the  collection,  which  ought  never  to  be  exhibited 
to  the  general  public. 

It  would  be  easy,  however,  to  separate  these,  with  the  ac- 
knowledged copies,  from  the  rest ; and,  doing  the  same  with 
the  drawings  of  Raphael,  among  which  a larger  number  are  of 
true  value,  to  form  a connected  series  of  deep  interest 
to  artists,  in  illustration  of  the  incipient  and  experimental 
methods  of  design  practised  by  each  master. 

I say,  to  artists.  Incipient  methods  of  design  are  not,  and 


MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  T1NT0RET. 


213 


ought  not  to  be,  subjects  of  earnest  inquiry  to  other  people  : 
and  although  the  re-arrangement  of  the  drawings  would  ma- 
terially increase  the  chance  of  their  gaining  due  attention, 
there  is  a final  and  fatal  reason  for  the  want  of  interest  in 
them  displayed  by  the  younger  students  namely,  that  these 
designs  have  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  present  life,  with 
its  passions,  or  with  its  religion.  What  their  historic  value  is, 
and  relation  to  the  life  of  the  past,  I will  endeavour,  so  far  as 
time  admits,  to  explain  to-day. 

The  course  of  Art  divides  itself  hitherto,  among  all  nations 
of  the  world  that  have  practised  it  successfully,  into  three 
great  periods. 

The  first,  that  in  which  their  conscience  is  undeveloped, 
and  their  condition  of  life  in  many  respects  savage ; but, 
nevertheless,  in  harmony  with  whatever  conscience  they  pos- 
sess. The  most  powerful  tribes,  in  this  stage  of  their  intel- 
lect, usually  live  by  rapine,  and  under  the  influence  of  vivid, 
but  contracted,  religious  imagination.  The  early  predatory 
activity  of  the  Normans,  and  the  confused  minglings  of  relig- 
ious subjects  with  scenes  of  hunting,  war,  and  vile  grotesque, 
in  their  first  art,  will  sufficiently  exemplify  this  state  of  a 
people  ; having,  observe,  their  conscience  undeveloped,  but 
keeping  their  conduct  in  satisfied  harmony  with  it. 

The  second  stage  is  that  of  the  formation  of  conscience  by 
the  discovery  of  the  true  laws  of  social  order  and  personal 
virtue,  coupled  with  sincere  effort  to  live  by  such  laws  as  they 
are  discovered. 

All  the  Arts  advance  steadily  during  this  stage  of  national 
growth,  and  are  lovely,  even  in  their  deficiencies,  as  the  buds 
of  flowers  are  lovely  by  their  vital  force,  swift  change,  and 
continent  beauty. 

The  third  stage  is  that  in  which  the  conscience  is  entirely 
formed,  and  the  nation,  finding  it  painful  to  live  in  obedience 
to  the  precepts  it  has  discovered,  looks  about  to  discover,  also, 
a compromise  for  obedience  to  them.  In  this  condition  of 
mind  its  first  endeavour  is  nearly  always  to  make  its  religion 
pompous,  and  please  the  gods  by  giving  them  gifts  and  en- 
tertainments, in  which  it  may  piously  and  pleasurably  share 


214 


TEE  RELATION  BETWEEN 


itself ; so  that  a magnificent  display  of  the  powers  of  art  it 
has  gained  by  sincerity,  takes  place  for  a few  years,  and  is 
then  followed  by  their  extinction,  rapid  and  complete  exactly 
in  the  degree  in  which  the  nation  resigns  itself  to  hypocrisy. 

The  works  of  Raphael,  Michael  Angelo,  and  Tin  tore  t,  be- 
long to  this  period  of  compromise  in  the  career  of  the  great- 
est nation  of  the  world  ; and  are  the  most  splendid  efforts  yet 
made  by  human  creatures  to  maintain  the  dignity  of  states 
with  beautiful  colours,  and  defend  the  doctrines  of  theology 
with  anatomical  designs. 

Farther,  and  as  an  universal  principle,  we  have  to  remem- 
ber that  the  Arts  express  not  only  the  moral  temper,  but  the 
scholarship,  of  their  age  ; and  we  have  thus  to  study  them 
under  the  influence,  at  the  same  moment  of,  it  may  be,  de- 
clining probity,  and  advancing  science. 

Now  in  this  the  Arts  of  Northern  and  Southern  Europe 
stand  exactly  opposed.  The  Northern  temper  never  accepts 
the  Catholic  faith  with  force  such  as  it  reached  in  Italy.  Our 
sincerest  thirteenth  century  sculpture  is  cold  and  formal  com- 
pared with  that  of  the  Pisani ; nor  can  any  Northern  poet  be 
set  for  an  instant  beside  Dante,  as  an  exponent  of  Catholic 
faith : on  the  contrary,  the  Northern  temper  accepts  the 
scholarship  of  the  Reformation  with  absolute  sincerity,  while 
the  Italians  seek  refuge  from  it  in  the  partly  scientific  and 
completely  lascivious  enthusiasms  of  literature  and  painting, 
renewed  under  classical  influence.  We  therefore,  in  the 
north,  produce  our  Shakespeare  and  Holbein ; they  their 
Petrarch  and  Raphael.  And  it  is  nearly  impossible  for  you 
to  study  Shakespeare  or  Holbein  too  much,  or  Petrarch  and 
Raphael  too  little. 

I do  not  say  this,  observe,  in  opposition  to  the  Catholic 
faith,  or  to  any  other  faith,  but  only  to  the  attempts  to  sup- 
port whatsoever  the  faith  may  be,  by  ornament  or  eloquence, 
instead  of  action.  Every  man  who  honestly  accepts,  and  acts 
upon,  the  knowledge  granted  to  him  by  the  circumstances  of 
his  time,  has  the  faith  which  God  intends  him  to  have  ; — as- 
suredly a good  one,  whatever  the  terms  or  form  of  it — every 
man  who  dishonestly  refuses,  or  interestedly  disobeys  the 


MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  TIN  TO  RET. 


215 


knowledge  open  to  him,  holds  a faith  which  God  does  not 
mean  him  to  hold,  and  therefore  a bad  one,  however  beauti- 
ful or  traditionally  respectable. 

Do  not,  therefore,  I entreat  you,  think  that  I speak  with 
any  purpose  of  defending  one  system  of  theology  against 
another  ; least  of  all,  reformed  against  Catholic  theology. 
There  probably  never  was  a system  of  religion  so  destructive 
to  the  loveliest  arts  and  the  loveliest  virtues  of  men,  as  the 
modern  Protestantism,  which  consists  in  an  assured  belief  in 
the  Divine  forgiveness  of  all  your  sins,  and  the  Divine  correct- 
ness of  all  your  opinions.  But  in  their  first  searching  and 
sincere  activities,  the  doctrines  of  the  Reformation  produced 
the  most  instructive  art,  and  the  grandest  literature,  yet  given 
to  the  world  ; while  Italy,  in  her  interested  resistance  to  those 
doctrines,  polluted  and  exhausted  the  arts  she  already  pos- 
sessed. Her  iridescence  of  dying  statesmanship — her  magnif- 
icence of  hollow  piety,  were  represented  in  the  arts  of  Venice 
and  Florence  by  two  mighty  men  on  either  side — Titian 
and  Tin  tore  t, — Michael  Angelo  and  Raphael.  Of  the  calm 
and  brave  statesmanship,  the  modest  and  faithful  religion, 
which  had  been  her  strength,  I am  content  to  name  one  chief 
representative  artist  at  Venice,  John  Bellini. 

Let  me  now  map  out  for  you  roughly,  the  chronological  re- 
lations of  these  five  men.  It  is  impossible  to  remember  the 
minor  years,  in  dates  ; I will  give  you  them  broadly  in  decades, 
and  you  can  add  what  finesse  afterwards  you  like. 

Recollect,  first,  the  great  year  1480.  Twice  four’s  eight — 
you  can’t  mistake  it.  In  that  year  Michael  Angelo  was  five 
years  old ; Titian,  three  years  old ; Raphael,  within  three  years 
of  being  born. 

So  see  how  easily  it  comes.  Michael  Angelo  five  years  old 
— and  you  divide  six  between  Titian  and  Raphael, — three  on 
each  side  of  your  standard  year,  1480. 

Then  add  to  1480,  forty  years — an  easy  number  to  recollect, 
surely  ; and  you  get  the  exact  year  of  Raphael’s  death,  1520. 

In  that  forty  years  all  the  new  effort,  and  deadly  catastro- 
phe took  place.  1480  to  1520. 

Now,  you  have  only  to  fasten  to  those  forty  years,  the  life 


210 


THE  RELATION  BETWEEN 


of  Bellini,  who  represents  the  best  art  before  them,  and  of 
Tintoret,  who  represents  the  best  art  after  them. 

I cannot  fit  you  these  on  with  a quite  comfortable  exact- 
ness, but  with  very  slight  inexactness  I can  fit  them  firmly. 

John  Bellini  was  ninety  years  old  when  he  died.  He  lived 
fifty  years  before  the  great  forty  of  change,  and  he  saw  the 
forty,  and  died.  Then  Tintoret  is  born  ; lives  eighty  * years 
after  the  forty,  and  closes,  in  dying,  the  sixteenth  century, 
and  the  great  arts  of  the  world. 

Those  are  the  dates,  roughly  ; now  for  the  facts  connected 
with  them. 

John  Bellini  precedes  the  change,  meets,  and  resists  it  vic- 
toriously to  his  death.  Nothing  of  flaw  or  failure  is  ever  to 
be  discerned  in  him. 

Then  Raphael,  Michael  Angelo,  and  Titian,  together,  bring 
about  the  deadly  change,  playing  into  each  other’s  hands — 
Michael  Angelo  being  the  chief  captain  in  evil ; Titian,  in  nat- 
ural force. 

Then  Tintoret,  himself  alone  nearly  as  strong  as  all  the 
three,  stands  up  for  a last  fight,  for  Venice,  and  the  old  time. 
He  all  but  wins  it  at  first ; but  the  three  together  are  too 
strong  for  him.  Michael  Angelo  strikes  him  down  ; and  the 
arts  are  ended.  “E.  disegno  di  Michel  Agnolo.”  That  fatal 
motto  was  his  death-warrant. 

And  now,  having  massed  out  my  subject,  I can  clearly 
sketch  for  you  the  changes  that  took  place  from  Bellini, 
through  Michael  Angelo,  to  Tintoret. 

The  art  of  Bellini  is  centrally  represented  by  two  pictures  at 
Venice  : one,  the  Madonna  in  the  Sacristy  of  the  Frari,  with 
two  saints  beside  her,  and  two  angels  at  her  feet  ; the  second, 
the  Madonna  with  four  Saints,  over  the  second  altar  of  San 
Zaccaria. 

In  the  first  of  these,  the  figures  are  under  life  size,  and  it 
represents  the  most  perfect  kind  of  picture  for  rooms ; in 

* If  yon  like  to  have  it  with  perfect  exactitude,  recollect  that 
Bellini  died  at  true  ninety, — Tintoret  at  eighty-two ; that  Bellini’s 
death  was  four  years  before  Raphael’s  and  that  Tintoret  was  born  four 
years  before  Bellini’s  death. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  TIN  TO  RET. 


217 


which,  since  it  is  intended  to  be  seen  close  to  the  spectator, 
every  right  kind  of  finish  possible  to  the  hand  may  be  wisely 
lavished  ; yet  which  is  not  a miniature,  nor  in  any  wise  petty, 
or  ignoble. 

In  the  second,  the  figures  are  of  life  size,  or  a little  more, 
and  it  represents  the  class  of  great  pictures  in  which  the 
boldest  execution  is  used,  but  all  brought  to  entire  comple- 
tion. These  two,  having  every  quality  in  balance,  are  as  far 
as  my  present  knowledge  extends,  and  as  far  as  I can  trust 
my  judgment,  the  two  best  pictures  in  the  world. 

Observe  respecting  them — 

First,  they  are  both  wrought  in  entirely  consistent  and  per- 
manent material.  The  gold  in  them  is  represented  by  paint- 
ing, not  laid  on  with  real  gold.  And  the  painting  is  so  se- 
cure, that  four  hundred  years  have  produced  on  it,  so  far  as  I 
can  see,  no  harmful  change  whatsoever,  of  any  kind. 

Secondly,  the  figures  in  both  are  in  perfect  peace.  No  ac- 
tion takes  place  except  that  the  little  angels  are  playing  on 
musical  instruments,  but  with  uninterrupted  and  effortless 
gesture,  as  in  a dream.  A choir  of  singing  angels  by  La  Rob- 
bia or  Donatello  would  be  intent  on  their  music,  or  eagerly 
rapturous  in  it,  as  in  temporary  exertion  : in  the  little  choirs 
of  cherubs  by  Luini  in  the  Adoration  of  the  Sheperds,  in  the 
Cathedral  of  Como,  we  even  feel  by  their  dutiful  anxiety  that 
there  might  be  danger  of  a false  note  if  they  were  less  atten- 
tive. But  Bellini’s  angels,  even  the  youngest,  sing  as  calmly 
as  the  Fates  weave. 

Let  me  at  once  point  out  to  you  that  this  calmness  is  the 
attribute  of  the  entirely  highest  class  of  art : the  introduction 
of  strong  or  violently  emotional  incident  is  at  once  a confes- 
sion of  inferiority. 

Those  are  the  two  first  attributes  of  the  best  art.  Faultless 
workmanship,  and  perfect  serenity ; a continuous,  not  mo- 
mentary, action, — or  entire  inaction.  You  are  to  be  interested 
in  the  living  creatures  ; not  in  what  is  happening  to  them. 

Then  the  third  attribute  of  the  best  art  is  that  it  compels 
you  to  think  of  the  spirit  of  the  creature,  and  therefore  of  ita 
face,  more  than  of  its  body. 


218 


TEE  RELATION  BETWEEN 


And  the  fourth  is  that  in  the  face,  you  shall  be  led  to  see 
only  beauty  or  joy  ; — never  vileness,  vice,  or  pain. 

Those  are  the  four  essentials  of  the  greatest  art.  I repeat 
them,  they  are  easily  learned. 

1.  Faultless  and  permanent  workmanship. 

2.  Serenity  in  state  or  action. 

3.  The  Face  principal,  not  the  body. 

4.  And  the  Face  free  from  either  vice  or  pain. 

It  is  not  possible,  of  course,  always  literally  to  observe  the 
second  condition,  that  there  shall  be  quiet  action  or  none ; 
but  Bellini’s  treatment  of  violence  in  action  you  may  see  ex- 
emplified in  a notable  way  in  his  St.  Peter  Martyr.  The  sol- 
dier is  indeed  striking  the  sword  down  into  his  breast ; but 
in  the  face  of  the  Saint  is  only  resignation,  and  faintness  of 
death,  not  pain — that  of  the  executioner  is  impassive ; and, 
while  a painter  of  the  later  schools  would  have  covered  breast 
and  sword  with  blood,  Bellini  allows  no  stain  of  it ; but 
pleases  himself  by  the  most  elaborate  and  exquisite  painting 
of  a soft  crimson  feather  in  the  executioner’s  helmet. 

Now  the  changes  brought  about  by  Michael  Angelo — and 
permitted,  or  persisted  in  calamitously,  by  Tintoret — are  in 
the  four  points  these  : 

1st.  Bad  workmanship. 

The  greater  part  of  all  that  these  two  men  did  is  hastily 
and  incompletely  done  ; and  all  that  they  did  on  a large  scale 
in  colour  is  in  the  best  qualities  of  it  perished. 

2nd.  Violence  of  transitional  action. 

The  figures  flying, — falling, — striking,  or  biting.  Scenes  of 
Judgment, — battle, — martyrdom, — massacre  ; anything  that 
is  in  the  acme  of  instantaneous  interest  and  violent  gesture. 
They  cannot  any  more  trust  their  public  to  care  for  anything 
but  that. 

3rd.  Physical  instead  of  mental  interest.  The  body,  and  its 
anatomy,  made  the  entire  subject  of  interest : the  face,  shad- 
owed, as  in  the  Puke  Lorenzo,*  unfinished,  as  in  the  Twilight, 

* Julian,  rather.  See  Mr.  Tyrwhitt’s  notice  of  the  lately  discovered 
error,  in  his  Lectures  on  Christian  Art. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  UNTO  RET. 


219 


or  entirely  foreshortened,  backshortened,  and  despised,  among 
labyrinths  of  limbs,  and  mountains  of  sides  and  shoulders. 

4th.  Evil  chosen  rather  than  good.  On  the  face  itself,  in- 
stead of  joy  or  virtue,  at  the  best,  sadness,  probably  pride, 
often  sensuality,  and  always,  by  preference,  vice  or  agony  as 
the  subject  of  thought.  In  the  Last  Judgment  of  Michael 
Angelo,  and  the  Last  Judgment  of  Tintoret,  it  is  the  wrath  of 
the  Dies  Irse,  not  its  justice,  in  which  they  delight ; and  their 
only  passionate  thought  of  the  coming  of  Christ  in  the  clouds, 
is  that  all  kindreds  of  the  earth  shall  wail  because  of  him. 

Those  are  the  four  great  changes  wrought  by  Michael  An- 
gelo. I repeat  them  : 

111  work  for  good. 

Tumult  for  Peace. 

The  Flesh  of  Man  for  his  Spirit. 

And  the  Curse  of  God  for  His  Blessing. 

Hitherto,  I have  massed,  necessarily,  but  most  unjustly, 
Miohael  Angelo  and  Tintoret  together,  because  of  their  com- 
mon relation  to  the  art  of  others.  I shall  now  proceed  to 
distinguish  the  qualities  of  their  own.  And  first  as  to  the 
general  temper  of  the  two  men. 

Nearly  every  existing  work  by  Michael  Angelo  is  an  attempt 
to  execute  something  beyond  his  power,  coupled  with  a fevered 
desire  that  his  power  may  be  acknowledged.  He  is  always 
matching  himself  either  against  the  Greeks  whom  he  cannot 
rival,  or  against  rivals  whom  he  cannot  forget.  He  is  proud, 
yet  not  proud  enough  to  be  at  peace ; melancholy,  yet  not 
deeply  enough  to  be  raised  above  petty  pain  ; and  strong  be- 
yond all  his  companion  workmen,  yet  never  strong  enough  to 
command  his  temper,  or  limit  his  aims. 

Tintoret,  on  the  contrary,  works  in  the  consciousness  of 
supreme  strength,  which  cannot  be  wounded  by  neglect,  and 
is  only  to  be  thwarted  by  time  and  space.  He  knows  pre- 
cisely all  that  art  can  accomplish  under  given  conditions ; de- 
termines absolutely  how  much  of  what  can  be  done,  he  will 
himself  for  the  moment  choose  to  do  ; and  fulfils  his  purpose 
with  as  much  ease  as  if,  through  his  human  body,  were  work- 
ing the  great  forces  of  nature.  Not  that  he  is  ever  satisfied 


220 


TEE  RELATION  BETWEEN 


witli  what  he  has  done,  as  vulgar  and  feeble  artists  are  satisfied. 
He  falls  short  of  his  ideal,  more  than  any  other  man  ; but  not 
more  than  is  necessary ; and  is  content  to  fall  short  of  it  to 
that  degree,  as  he  is  content  that  his  figures,  however  well 
painted,  do  not  move  nor  speak.  He  is  also  entirely  uncon- 
cerned respecting  the  satisfaction  of  the  public.  He  neither 
cares  to  display  his  strength  to  them,  nor  convey  his  ideas  to 
them  ; when  he  finishes  his  work,  it  is  because  he  is  in  the 
humour  to  do  so  ; and  the  sketch  wdiich  a meaner  painter 
would  have  left  incomplete  to  show  how  cleverly  it  was  begun, 
Tintoret  simply  leaves  because  he  has  done  as  much  of  it  as 
he  likes. 

Both  Raphael  and  Michael  Angelo  are  thus,  in  the  most 
vital  of  all  points,  separate  from  the  great  Venetian.  They 
are  always  in  dramatic  attitudes,  and  always  appealing  to  the 
public  for  praise.  They  are  the  leading  athletes  in  the  gym- 
nasium of  the  arts ; and  the  crowd  of  the  circus  cannot  take 
its  eyes  away  from  them,  while  the  Venetian  walks  or  rests 
with  the  simplicity  of  a wild  animal ; is  scarcely  noticed  in  his 
occasionally  swifter  motion  ; when  he  springs,  it  is  to  please 
himself  ; and  so  calmly,  that  no  one  thinks  of  estimating  the 
distance  covered. 

I do  not  praise  him  wholly  in  this.  I praise  him  only  for 
the  well-founded  pride,  infinitely  nobler  than  Michael  Ange- 
lo’s. You  do  not  hear  of  Tintoret’s  putting  any  one  into  hell 
because  they  had  found  fault  with  his  work.  Tintoret  would 
as  soon  have  thought  of  putting  a dog  into  hell  for  laying  his 
paws  on  it.  But  he  is  to  be  blamed  in  this — that  he  thinks  as 
little  of  the  pleasure  of  the  public,  as  of  their  opinion.  A 
great  painter’s  business  is  to  do  what  the  public  ask  of  him, 
in  the  way  that  shall  be  helpful  and  instructive  to  them.  His 
relation  to  them  is  exactly  that  of  a tutor  to  a child  ; he  is  not 
to  defer  to  their  judgment,  but  he  is  carefully  to  form  it ; — 
not  to  consult  their  pleasure  for  his  own  sake,  but  to  consult 
it  much  for  theirs.  It  was  scarcely,  however,  possible  that 
this  should  be  the  case  between  Tintoret  and  his  Venetians  ; 
he  could  not  paint  for  the  people,  and  in  some  respects  he  was 
happily  protected  by  his  subordination  to  the  senate.  Raphael 


MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  TINTOUET. 


221 


and  Michael  Angelo  lived  in  a world  of  court  intrigue,  in 
which  it  was  impossible  to  escape  petty  irritation,  or  refuse 
themselves  the  pleasure  of  mean  victory.  But  Tintoret  and 
Titian,  even  at  the  height  of  their  reputation,  practically  lived 
as  craftsmen  in  their  workshops,  and  sent  in  samples  of  their 
wares,  not  to  be  praised  or  cavilled  at,  but  to  be  either  taken 
or  refused. 

I can  clearly  and  adequately  set  before  you  these  relations 
between  the  great  painters  of  Venice  and  her  senate — rela- 
tions which,  in  monetary  matters,  are  entirely  right  and  exem- 
plary for  all  time — by  reading  to  you  two  decrees  of  the 
Senate  itself,  and  one  petition  to  it.  The  first  document  shall 
be  the  decree  of  the  Senate  for  giving  help  to  John  Bellini,  in 
finishing  the  compartments  of  the  great  Council  Chamber ; 
granting  him  three  assistants — one  of  them  Victor  Carpaccio. 

The  decree,  first  referring  to  some  other  business,  closes  in 
these  terms : * 

“ There  having  moreover  offered  his  services  to  this  effect 
our  most  faithful  citizen,  Zuan  Beilin,  according  to  his  agree- 
ment employing  his  skill  and  all  speed  and  diligence  for  the 
completion  of  this  work  of  the  three  pictures  aforesaid,  pro- 
vided he  be  assisted  by  the  under  written  painters. 

“Be  it  therefore  put  to  the  ballot,  that  besides  the  afore- 
said Zuan  Beilin  in  person,  who  will  assume  the  superintend- 
ence of  this  work,  there  be  added  Master  Victor  Scarpaza, 
with  a monthly  salary  of  five  ducats  ; Master  Victor,  son  of 
the  late  Mathio,  at  four  ducats  per  month  ; and  the  painter, 
Hieronymo,  at  two  ducats  per  month  ; they  rendering  speedy 
and  diligent  assistance  to  the  aforesaid  Zuan  Beilin  for  the 
painting  of  the  pictures  aforesaid,  so  that  they  be  completed 
well  and  carefully  as  speedily  as  possible.  The  salaries  of  the 
wThich  three  master  painters  aforesaid,  with  the  costs  of  col- 
ours and  other  necessaries,  to  be  defrayed  by  our  Salt  office 
with  the  monies  of  the  great  chest. 

“ It  being  expressly  declared  that  said  pensioned  painters 
be  tied  and  bound  to  work  constantly  and  daily,  so  that  said 

* From  the  invaluable  series  of  documents  relating  to  Titian  and  his 
times,  extricated  by  Mr.  Rawdon  Brown  from  the  archives  of  Venice, 
and  arranged  and  translated  by  him. 


222 


THE  RELATION  BETWEEN 


three  pictures  mav  be  completed  as  expeditiously  as  possible  ; 
the  artists  aforesaid  being  pensioned  at  the  good  pleasure  of 


this  Council. 

“ Ayes. 23 

“ Noes 3 

€i  Neutrals 0” 


This  decree  is  the  more  interesting  to  us  now,  because  it  is 
the  precedent  to  which  Titian  himself  refers,  when  he  first  of- 
fers his  services  to  the  Senate. 

The  petition  which  I am  about  to  read  to  you,  was  read  to 
the  Council  of  Ten,  on  the  last  day  of  May,  1513,  and  the 
original  draft  of  it  is  yet  preserved  in  the  Venice  archives. 

“ 1 Most  Illustrious  Council  of  Ten. 

“ ‘ Most  Serene  Prince  and  most  Excellent  Lords. 

“ * I,  Titian  of  Serviete  de  Cadore,  having  from  my  boyhood 
upwards  set  myself  to  learn  the  art  of  painting,  not  so  much 
from  cupidity  of  gain  as  for  the  sake  of  endeavouring  to  ac- 
quire some  little  fame,  and  of  being  ranked  amongst  those 
who  now  profess  the  said  art 

“ ‘And  altho  heretofore,  and  likewise  at  this  present,  I have 
been  earnestly  requested  by  the  Pope  and  other  potentates  to 
go  and  serve  them,  nevertheless,  being  anxious  as  your  Seren- 
ity’s most  faithful  subject,  for  such  I am,  to  leave  some  memo- 
rial in  this  famous  city ; my  determination  is,  should  the 
Signory  approve,  to  undertake,  so  long  as  I live,  to  come  and 
paint  in  the  Grand  Council  with  my  whole  soul  and  ability ; 
commencing,  provided  your  Serenity  think  of  it,  with  the  bat- 
tle-piece on  the  side  towards  the  “ Piazza,”  that  being  the 
most  difficult ; nor  down  to  this  time  has  any  one  chosen  to 
assume  so  hard  a task. 

“ ‘ I,  most  excellent  Lords,  should  be  better  pleased  to  re- 
ceive as  recompense  for  the  work  to  be  done  by  me,  such 
acknowledgments  as  may  be  deemed  sufficient,  and  much 
less  ; but  because,  as  already  stated  by  me,  I care  solely  for  my 
honour,  and  mere  livelihood,  should  your  Serenity  approve, 
you  will  vouchsafe  to  grant  me  for  my  life,  the  next  brokers- 
patent  in  the  German  factory,*  by  whatever  means  it  may  be- 

* Fondaco  de  Tedeschi.  I saw  the  last  wrecks  of  Giorgione’s  frescoes 
on  the  outside  of  it  in  1845. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  TINTORET. 


223 


come  vacant ; notwithstanding  other  expectancies ; with  the 
terms,  conditions,  obligations,  and  exemptions,  as  in  the  case 
of  Messer  Zuan  Bellini ; besides  two  youths  whom  I purpose 
bringing  with  me  as  assistants  ; they  to  be  paid  by  the  Salt 
office  ; as  likewise  the  colours  and  all  other  requisites,  as  con- 
ceded a few  months  ago  by  the  aforesaid  most  Illustrious 
Council  to  the  said  Messer  Zuan  ; for  I promise  to  do  such 
work  and  with  so  much  speed  and  excellency  as  shall  satisfy 
your  Lordships  to  whom  I humbly  recommend  myself.’  ” 

“ This  proposal,”  Mr.  Brown  tells  us,  “ in  accordance  with 
the  petitions  presented  by  Gentil  Bellini  and  Alvise  Vivarini, 
was  immediately  put  to  the  ballot,”  and  earned  thus — the 
decision  of  the  Grand  Council,  in  favour  of  Titian,  being,  ob- 
serve, by  no  means  unanimous  : — 


“Ayes 10 

“ Noes 6 

“Neutrals 0” 


Immediately  follows  on  the  acceptance  of  Titian’s  services, 
this  practical  order : 

“We,  Chiefs  of  the  most  Illustrious  Council  of  Ten,  tell 
and  inform  you  Lords  Proveditors  for  the  State  ; videlicet 
the  one  who  is  cashier  of  the  Great  Chest,  and  his  successors, 
that  for  the  execution  of  what  has  been  decreed  above  in  the 
most  Illustrious  Council  aforesaid,  you  do  have  prepared  all 
necessaries  for  the  above  written  Titian  according  to  his 
petition  and  demand,  and  as  observed  with  regard  to  Juan 
Bellini,  that  he  may  paint  ut  supra  ; paying  from  month  to 
month  the  two  youths  whom  said  Titian  shall  present  to  you 
at  the  rate  of  four  ducats  each  per  month,  as  urged  by  him 
because  of  their  skill  and  sufficiency  in  said  art  of  painting, 
tho’  we  do  not  mean  the  payment  of  their  salary  to  commence 
until  they  begin  work  ; and  thus  will  you  do.  Given  on  the 
8th  of  June,  1513.” 

That  is  the  way,  then,  great  workmen  wish  to  be  paid,  and 
that  is  the  way  wise  men  pay  them  for  their  work.  The  per- 
fect simplicity  of  such  patronage  leaves  the  painter  free  to  do 
precisely  what  he  thinks  best : and  a good  painter  always 
produces  his  best,  with  such  license. 


224 


TEE  kuLATION  BETWEEN 


And  now  I shall  take  the  four  conditions  of  change  in  sue. 
cession,  and  examine  the  distinctions  between  the  tw'o  mas. 
ters  in  their  acceptance  of,  or  resistance  to,  them. 

I.  The  change  of  good  and  permanent  workmanship  forbad 
and  insecure  workmanship. 

You  have  often  heard  quoted  the  saying  of  Michael  Angelo, 
that  oil-painting  was  only  fit  for  women  and  children. 

He  said  so,  simply  because  he  had  neither  the  skill  to  lay  a 
single  touch  of  good  oil-painting,  nor  the  patience  to  over- 
come even  its  elementary  difficulties. 

And  it  is  one  of  my  reasons  for  the  choice  of  subject  in  this 
concluding  lecture  on  Sculpture,  that  I may,  with  direct  ref- 
erence to  this  much  quoted  saying  of  Michael  Angelo,  make 
the  positive  statement  to  you,  that  oil-painting  is  the  Art  of 
arts  ; * that  it  is  sculpture,  drawing,  and  music,  all  in  one,  in- 
volving the  technical  dexterities  of  those  three  several  arts ; 
that  is  to  say — the  decision  and  strength  of  the  stroke  of  the 
chisel ; — the  balanced  distribution  of  appliance  of  that  force 
necessary  for  gradation  in  light  and  shade  ; — and  the  pas- 
sionate felicity  of  rightly  multiplied  actions,  all  unerring, 
which  on  an  instrument  produce  right  sound,  and  on  canvas, 
living  colour.  There  is  no  other  human  skill  so  great  or  so 
wonderful  as  the  skill  of  fine  oil-painting  ; and  there  is  no 
other  art  whose  results  are  so  absolutely  permanent.  Music 
is  gone  as  soon  as  produced  — marble  discolours,  — fresco 
fades, — glass  darkens  or  decomposes — painting  alone,  well 
guarded,  is  practically  everlasting. 

Of  this  splendid  art  Michael  Angelo  understood  nothing ; 
he  understood  even  fresco,  imperfectly.  Tintoret  understood 
both  perfectly  ; but  he — when  no  one  would  pay  for  his  col- 
ours, (and  sometimes  nobody  would  even  give  him  space  of 
wall  to  paint  on)— used  cheap  blue  for  ultramarine  ; and  he 
worked  so  rapidly,  and  on  such  huge  spaces  of  canvas,  that 
between  damp  and  dry,  his  colours  must  go,  for  the  most 

* I beg  that  this  statement  may  be  observed  with  attention.  It  is  of 
great  importance,  as  in  opposition  to  the  views  usually  held  respecting 
the  grave  schools  of  painting. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  T1NT0RET. 


225 


part ; but  any  complete  oil-painting  of  his  stands  as  well  as 
one  of  Bellini’s  own  : while  Michael  Angelo’s  fresco  is  defaced 
already  in  every  part  of  it,  and  Lionardo’s  oil-painting  is  all 
either  gone  black,  or  gone  to  nothing. 

II.  Introduction  of  dramatic  interest  for  the  sake  of  excite- 
ment. I have  already,  in  the  Stones  of  Venice , illustrated 
Tintoret’s  dramatic  power  at  so  great  length,  that  I will  not, 
to-day,  make  any  farther  statement  to  justify  my  assertion 
that  it  is  as  much  beyond  Michael  Angelo’s  as  Shakspeare’s  is 
beyond  Milton’s — and  somewhat  with  the  same  kind  of  differ- 
ence in  manner.  Neither  can  I speak  to-day,  time  not  per- 
mitting me,  of  the  abuse  of  their  dramatic  power  by  Venetian 
or  Florentine  ; one  thing  only  I beg  you  to  note,  that  with 
full  half  of  his  strength,  Tintoret  remains  faithful  to  the 
serenity  of  the  past ; and  the  examples  I have  given  you  from 
his  work  in  S.  50,*  are,  one,  of  the  most  splendid  drama,  and 
the  other  of  the  quietest  portraiture,  ever  attained  by  the  arts 
of  the  middle  ages. 

Note  also  this  respecting  his  picture  of  the  Judgment,  that, 
in  spite  of  all  the  violence  and  wildness  of  the  imagined  scene, 
Tintoret  has  not  given,  so  far  as  I remember,  the  spectacle  of 
any  one  soul  under  infliction  of  actual  pain.  In  all  previous 
representations  of  the  Last  Judgment  there  had  at  least  been 
one  division  of  the  picture  set  apart  for  the  representation  of 
torment ; and  even  the  gentle  Angelico  shrinks  from  no  ortho- 
dox detail  in  this  respect : but  Tintoret,  too  vivid  and  true  in 
imagination  to  be  able  to  endure  the  common  thoughts  of  hell, 
represents  indeed  the  wicked  in  ruin,  but  not  in  agony.  They 
are  swept  down  by  flood  and  whirlwind — the  place  of  them 
shall  know  them  no  more,  but  not  one  is  seen  in  more  than 
the  natural  pain  of  swift  and  irrevocable  death. 

III.  I pass  to  the  third  condition  ; the  priority  of  flesh  to 
spirit,  and  of  the  body  to  the  face. 

* The  upper  photograph  in  S.  50  is,  however,  not  taken  from  the 
great  Paradise,  which  is  in  too  dark  a position  to  be  photographed,  but 
from  a study  of  it  existing  in  a private  gallery,  and  every  way  inferior. 

I have  vainly  tried  to  photograph  portions  of  the  picture  itself. 


226 


TEE  RELATION  BETWEEN 


In  this  alone,  of  the  four  innovations,  Michael  Angelo  and 
Tintoret  have  the  Greeks  with  them  ; — in  this,  alone,  have 
they  any  right  to  be  called  classical.  The  Greeks  gave  them 
no  excuse  for  bad  workmanship  ; none  for  temporary  passion  ; 
none  for  the  preference  of  pain.  Only  in  the  honour  done  to 
the  body  may  be  alleged  for  them  the  authority  of  the  ancients. 

You  remember,  I hope,  how  often  in  my  preceding  lectures 
I had  to  insist  on  the  fact  that  Greek  sculpture  was  essentially 
d7rpoo-aj7ros  ; — independent,  not  only  of  the  expression,  but  even 
of  the  beauty  of  the  face.  Nay,  independent  of  its  being  so 
much  as  seen.  The  greater  number  of  the  finest  pieces  of  it 
which  remain  for  us  to  judge  by,  have  had  the  heads  broken 
away  ; — we  do  not  seriously  miss  them  either  from  the  Three 
Fates,  the  Ilissus,  or  the  Torso  of  the  Vatican.  The  face  of 
the  Theseus  is  so  far  destroyed  by  time  that  you  can  form 
little  conception  of  its  former  aspect.  But  it  is  otherwise  in 
Christian  sculpture.  Strike  the  head  off  even  the  rudest 
statue  in  the  porch  of  Chartres  and  you  will  greatly  miss  it — 
the  harm  would  be  still  worse  to  Donatello’s  St.  George  : — 
and  if  you  take  the  heads  from  a statue  of  Mino,  or  a painting 
of  Angelico — very  little  but  drapery  will  be  left ; — drapery 
made  redundant  in  quantity  and  rigid  in  fold,  that  it  may 
conceal  the  forms,  and  give  a proud  or  ascetic  reserve  to  the 
actions,  of  the  bodily  frame.  Bellini  and  his  school,  indeed, 
rejected  at  once  the  false  theory,  and  the  easy  mannerism,  of 
such  religious  design  ; and  painted  the  body  without  fear  or 
reserve,  as,  in  its  subordination,  honourable  and  lovely.  But 
the  inner  heart  and  fire  of  it  are  by  them  always  first  thought 
of,  and  no  action  is  given  to  it  merely  to  show  its  beauty. 
Whereas  the  great  culminating  masters,  and  chiefly  of  these, 
Tintoret,  Correggio,  and  Michael  Angelo,  delight  in  the  body 
for  its  own  sake,  and  cast  it  into  every  conceivable  attitude, 
often  in  violation  of  all  natural  probability,  that  they  may  ex- 
hibit the  action  of  its  skeleton,  and  the  contours  of  its  flesh. 
The  movement  of  a hand  with  Cima  or  Bellini  expresses  men- 
tal emotion  only  ; but  the  clustering  and  twining  of  the  fin- 
gers of  Correggio’s  St.  Catherine  is  enjoyed  by  the  painter 
just  in  the  same  way  as  he  would  enjoy  the  twining  of  the 


MICHAEL  ANOELO  AND  TINTORET. 


227 


branches  of  a graceful  plant,  and  he  compels  them  into  intrica- 
cies which  have  little  or  no  relation  to  St.  Catherine’s  mind. 
In  the  two  drawings  of  Correggio,  (S.  13  and  14,)  it  is  the 
rounding  of  limbs  and  softness  of  foot  resting  on  clouds  which 
are  principally  thought  of  in  the  form  of  the  Madonna  ; and  the 
countenance  of  St.  John  is  foreshortened  into  a section,  that  full 
prominence  may  be  given  to  the  muscles  of  his  arms  and  breast. 

So  in  Tintoret’s  drawing  of  the  Graces  (S.  22),  he  has  entirely 
neglected  the  individual  character  of  the  Goddesses,  and  been 
content  to  indicate  it  merely  by  attributes  of  dice  or  flower, 
so  only  that  he  may  sufficiently  display  varieties  of  contour  in 
thigh  and  shoulder. 

Thus  far  then,  the  Greeks,  Correggio,  Michael  Angelo, 
Raphael,  in  his  latter  design,  and  Tintoret,  in  his  scenic  de- 
sign, (as  opposed  to  portraiture)  are  at  one.  But  the  Greeks, 
Correggio,  and  Tintoret,  are  also  together  in  this  farther  point ; 
that  they  all  draw  the  body  for  true  delight  in  it,  and  with 
knowledge  of  it  living  ; while  Michael  Angelo  and  Raphael 
draw  the  body  for  vanity,  and  from  knowledge  of  it  dead. 

The  Venus  of  Melos, — Correggio’s  Venus,  (with  Mercury 
teaching  Cupid  to  read), — and  Tintoret’s  Graces,  have  the 
forms  which  their  designers  truly  liked  to  see  in  women. 
They  may  have  been  wrong  or  right  in  liking  those  forms,  but 
they  carved  and  painted  them  for  their  pleasure,  not  for  vanity. 

But  the  form  of  Michael  Angelo’s  Night  is  not  one  which 
he  delighted  to  see  in  women.  He  gave  it  her,  because  he 
thought  it  was  fine,  and  that  he  would  be  admired  for  reach- 
ing so  lofty  an  ideal.* 

Again.  The  Greeks,  Correggio,  and  Tintoret,  learn  the 
body  from  the  living  body,  and  delight  in  its  breath,  colour, 
and  motion,  f 

* He  had,  indeed,  other  and  more  solemn  thoughts  of  the  Night  than 
Correggio  ; and  these  he  tried  to  express  by  distorting  form,  and  mak- 
ing her  partly  Medusa-like.  In  this  lecture,  as  above  stated,  I am  only 
dwelling  on  points  hitherto  unnoticed  of  dangerous  evil  in  the  too  much 
admired  master. 

| Tintoret  dissected,  and  used  clay  models,  in  the  true  academical 
manner,  and  produced  academical  results  thereby  , but  all  his  fine  work 
is  done  from  life,  like  that  of  the  Greeks. 


228 


THE  RELATION  BETWEEN 


Raphael  and  Michael  Angelo  learned  it  essentially  from  the 
corpse,  and  had  no  delight  in  it  whatever,  but  great  pride  in 
showing  that  they  knew  all  its  mechanism ; they  therefore  sac- 
rifice its  colours,  and  insist  on  its  muscles,  and  surrender  the 
breath  and  fire  of  it,  for  what  is — not  merely  carnal, — but  os- 
seous, knowing  that  for  one  person  who  can  recognize  the 
loveliness  of  a look,  or  the  purity  of  a colour,  there  are  a hun- 
dred who  can  calculate  the  length  of  a bone. 

The  boy  with  the  doves,  in  Raphael’s  cartoon  of  the  Beauti- 
ful Gate  of  the  Temple,  is  not  a child  running,  but  a surgical 
diagram  of  a child  in  a running  posture. 

Farther,  when  the  Greeks,  Correggio,  and  Tintoret,  draw 
the  body  active,  it  is  because  they  rejoice  in  its  force,  and 
when  they  draw  it  inactive,  it  is  because  they  rejoice  in  its  re- 
pose. But  Michael  Angelo  and  Raphael  invent  for  it  ingen- 
ious mechanical  motion,  because  they  think  it  uninteresting 
when  it  is  quiet,  and  cannot,  in  their  pictures,  endure  any 
person’s  being  simple-minded  enough  to  stand  upon  both  his 
legs  at  once,  nor  venture  to  imagine  any  one’s  being  clear 
enough  in  his  language  to  make  himself  intelligible  without 
pointing. 

In  all  these  conditions,  the  Greek  and  Venetian  treatment 
of  the  body  is  faithful,  modest,  and  natural ; but  Michael  An- 
gelo’s dishonest,  insolent,  and  artificial. 

But  between  him  and  Tintoret  there  is  a separation  deeper 
than  all  these,  when  we  examine  their  treatment  of  the  face. 
Michael  Angelo’s  vanity  of  surgical  science  rendered  it  impos- 
sible for  him  ever  to  treat  the  body  as  well  as  the  Greeks 
treated  it ; but  it  left  him  wholly  at  liberty  to  treat  the  face  as 
ill ; and  he  did  : and  in  some  respects  very  curiously  worse. 

The  Greeks  had,  in  all  their  work,  one  type  of  face  for  beau- 
tiful and  honourable  persons  ; and  another,  much  contrary  to 
it,  for  dishonourable  ones  ; and  they  were  continually  setting 
these  in  opposition.  Their  type  of  beauty  lay  chiefly  in  the 
undisturbed  peace  and  simplicity  of  all  contours ; in  full 
roundness  of  chin ; in  perfect  formation  of  the  lips,  showing 
neither  pride  nor  care  ; and,  most  of  all,  in  a straight  and  firm 
line  from  the  brow  to  the  end  of  the  nose. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  TINTORET. 


229 


The  Greek  type  of  dishonourable  persons,  especially  satyrs, 
fauns,  and  sensual  powers,  consisted  in  irregular  excrescence 
and  decrement  of  features,  especially  in  flatness  of  the  upper 
part  of  the  nose,  and  projection  of  the  end  of  it  into  a blunt 
knob. 

By  the  most  grotesque  fatality,  as  if  the  personal  bodily  in- 
jury he  had  himself  received  had  passed  with  a sickly  echo 
into  his  mind  also,  Michael  Angelo  is  always  dwelling  on  this 
satyric  form  of  countenance; — sometimes  violently  carica- 
tures it,  but  never  can  help  drawing  it ; and  all  the  best 
profiles  in  this  collection  at  Oxford  have  what  Mr.  Kobinson 
calls  a “nez  retrousse  but  what  is,  in  reality,  the  nose  of 
the  Greek  Bacchic  mask,  treated  as  a dignified  feature. 

For  the  sake  of  readers  who  cannot  examine  the  drawings 
themselves,  and  lest  I should  be  thought  to  have  exaggerated 
in  any  wise  the  statement  of  this  character,  I quote  Mr.  Rob- 
inson’s description  of  the  head,  No.  9 — a celebrated  and  en- 
tirely authentic  drawing, — (on  which,  I regret  to  say,  my  own 
pencil  comment  in  passing  is  merely  “ brutal  lower  lip,  and 
broken  nose  : ”) — 

“ This  admirable  study  was  probably  made  from  nature,  ad- 
ditional character  and  more  powerful  expression  having  been 
given  to  it  by  a slight  exaggeration  of  details,  bordering  on 
caricature  (observe  the  protruding  lower  lip,  ‘ nez  retrousse/ 
and  overhanging  forehead).  The  head,  in  profile,  turned  to 
the  right,  is  proudly  planted  on  a massive  neck  and  shoulders, 
and  the  short  tufted  hair  stands  up  erect.  The  expression  is 
that  of  fierce,  insolent  self-confidence  and  malevolence  ; it  is 
engraved  in  facsimile  in  Ottley’s  ‘ Italian  School  of  Design,’ 
and  it  is  described  in  that  work  p.  33,  as  ‘ Finely  expressive 
of  scornfulness  and  pride,  and  evidently  a study  from  nature.’ 

“ Michel  Angelo  has  made  use  of  the  same  ferocious-looking 
model  on  other  occasions — see  an  instance  in  the  well-known 
‘Head  of  Satan’  engraved  in  Woodburn’s  Lawrence  Gallery 
(No.  16),  and  now  in  the  Malcolm  Collection. 

“ The  study  on  the  reverse  of  the  leaf  is  more  slightly  ex- 
ecuted ; it  represents  a man  of  powerful  frame,  carrying  a hog 
or  boar  in  his  arms  before  him,  the  upper  part  of  his  body 
thrown  back  to  balance  the  weight,  his  head  hidden  by  that 
of  the  animal,  which  rests  on  the  man’s  right  shoulder. 


230 


TEE  RELATION  BETWEEN 


“The  power  displayed  in  every  line  and  touch  of  these 
drawings  is  inimitable — the  head  was  in  truth  one  of  the 
‘teste  divine,’  and  the  hand  which  executed  it  the  ‘mano  ter- 
ribile,’  so  enthusiastically  alluded  to  by  Vasari.” 

Passing,  for  the  moment,  by  No.  10,  a “ young  woman  of 
majestic  character,  marked  by  a certain  expression  of  brood- 
ing melancholy,”  and  “wearing  on  her  head  a fantastic  cap  or 
turban;” — by  No.  11,  a bearded  man,  “ wearing  a conical 
Phrygian  cap,  his  mouth  wide  open,”  and  his  expression  “ ob- 
streperously animated  ; ” — and  by  No.  12,  “ a middle-aged  or 
old  man,  with  a snub  nose,  high  forehead,  and  thin,  scrubby 
hail',”  we  will  go  on  to  the  fairer  examples  of  Divine  heads  in 
No.  32. 

“This  splendid  sheet  of  studies  is  probably  one  of  the 
* carte  stupendissime  di  teste  divine,’  which  Vasari  says  (Vita, 
p.  272)  Michel  Angelo  executed,  as  presents  or  lessons  for  his 
artistic  friends.  Not  improbably  it  is  actually  one  of  those 
made  for  his  friend  Tommaso  dei  Cavalieri,  who,  when  young, 
was  desirous  of  learning  to  draw.” 

But  it  is  one  of  the  chief  misfortunes  affecting  Michael  An- 
gelo’s reputation,  that  his  ostentatious  display  of  strength  and 
science  has  a natural  attraction  for  comparatively  weak  and 
pedantic  persons.  Amd  this  sheet  of  Vasari’s  “ teste  divine  ” 
contains,  in  fact,  not  a single  drawing  of  high  quality — only 
one  of  moderate  agreeableness,  and  two  caricatured  heads, 
one  of  a satyr  with  hair  like  the  fur  of  animals,  and  one  of  a 
monstrous  and  sensual  face,  such  as  could  only  have  occurred 
to  the  sculptor  in  a fatigued  dream,  and  which  in  my  own 
notes  I have  classed  with  the  vile  face  in  No.  45. 

Returning,  however,  to  the  divine  heads  above  it,  I wish 
you  to  note  “ the  most  conspicuous  and  important  of  all,”  a 
study  for  one  of  the  Genii  behind  the  Sibylla  Libyca.  This 
Genius,  like  the  young  woman  of  a majestic  character,  and 
the  man  with  his  mouth  open,  wears  a cap,  or  turban  ; oppo- 
site to  him  in  the  sheet,  is  a female  in  profile,  “ wearing  a hood 
of  massive  drapery.”  And,  when  once  your  attention  is  di 


MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  TINTOLtET. 


231 


rected  to  this  point,  you  will  perhaps  be  surprised  to  find 
how  many  of  Michael  Angelo’s  figures,  intended  to  be  sub- 
lime, have  their  heads  bandaged.  If  you  have  been  a student 
of  Michael  Angelo  chiefly,  you  may  easily  have  vitiated  your 
taste  to  the  extent  of  thinking  that  this  is  a dignified  costume  ; 
but  if  you  study  Greek  work,  instead,  you  will  find  that  noth- 
ing is  more  important  in  the  system  of  it  than  a finished  dis- 
position of  the  hair  ; and  as  soon  as  you  acquaint  yourself  with 
the  execution  of  carved  marbles  generally,  you  will  perceive 
these  massy  fillets  to  be  merely  a cheap  means  of  getting  over 
a difficulty  too  great  for  Michael  Angelo’s  patience,  and  too 
exigent  for  his  invention.  They  are  not  sublime  arrangements, 
but  economies  of  labour,  and  reliefs  from  the  necessity  of  de- 
sign ; and  if  you  had  proposed  to  the  sculptor  of  the  Venus 
of  Melos,  or  of  the  Jupiter  of  Olympia,  to  bind  the  ambrosial 
locks  up  in  towels,  you  would  most  likely  have  been  instantly 
bound,  yourself ; and  sent  to  the  nearest  temple  of  iEscula- 
pius. 

I need  not,  surely,  tell  you, — I need  only  remind, — how  in 
all  these  points,  the  Venetians  and  Correggio  reverse  Michael 
Angelo’s  evil,  and  vanquish  him  in  good  ; how  they  refuse 
caricature,  rejoice  in  beauty,  and  thirst  for  opportunity  of  toil. 
The  waves  of  hair  in  a single  figure  of  Tintoret’s  (the  Mary 
Magdalen  of  the  Paradise)  contain  more  intellectual  design 
in  themselves  alone  than  all  the  folds  of  unseemly  linen  in  the 
Sistine  chapel  put  together. 

In  the  fourth  and  last  place,  as  Tintoret  does  not  sacrifice, 
except  as  he  is  forced  by  the  exigencies  of  display,  the  face  for 
the  body,  so  also  he  does  not  sacrifice  happiness  for  pain. 
The  chief  reason  why  we  all  know  the  “ Last  Judgment  ” of 
Michael  Angelo,  and  not  the  “ Paradise  ” of  Tintoret,  is  the 
same  love  of  sensation  which  makes  us  read  the  Inferno  of 
Dante,  and  not  his  Paradise ; and  the  choice,  believe  me,  is 
our  fault,  not  his  : some  farther  evil  influence  is  due  to  the 
fact  that  Michael  Angelo  has  invested  all  his  figures  with 
picturesque  and  palpable  elements  of  effect,  while  Tintoret 
has  only  made  them  lovely  in  themselves  and  has  been  com 
tent  that  they  should  deserve,  not  demand,  your  attention. 


232 


TEE  RELATION  BETWEEN 


You  are  accustomed  to  think  the  figures  of  Michael  Angelo 
sublime — because  they  are  dark,  and  colossal,  and  involved, 
and  mysterious — because  in  a word,  they  look  sometimes  like 
shadows,  and  sometimes  like  mountains,  and  sometimes  like 
spectres,  but  never  like  human  beings.  Believe  me,  yet  once 
more,  in  what  I told  you  long  since — man  can  invent  nothing 
nobler  than  humanity.  He  cannot  raise  his  form  into  any- 
thing better  than  God  made  it,  by  giving  it  either  the  flight 
of  birds  or  strength  of  beasts,  by  enveloping  it  in  mist,  or 
heaping  it  into  multitude.  Your  pilgrim  must  look  like  a pil- 
grim in  a straw  hat,  or  you  will  not  make  him  into  one  with 
cockle  and  nimbus  ; an  angel  must  look  like  an  angel  on  the 
ground,  as  well  as  in  the  air  ; and  the  much-denounced  pre- 
Baphaelite  faith  that  a saint  cannot  look  saintly  unless  he  has 
thin  legs,  is  not  more  absurd  than  Michael  Angelo’s,  that  a 
Sibyl  cannot  look  Sibylline  unless  she  has  thick  ones. 

All  that  shadowing,  storming,  and  coiling  of  his,  when  you 
look  into  it,  is  mere  stage  decoration,  and  that  of  a vulgar 
kind.  Light  is,  in  reality,  more  awful  than  darkness — modesty 
more  majestic  than  strength  ; and  there  is  truer  sublimity  in 
the  sweet  joy  of  a child,  or  the  sweet  virtue  of  a maiden,  than 
in  the  strength  of  Antgeus,  or  thunder-clouds  of  iEtna. 

Now,  though  in  nearly  all  his  greater  pictures,  Tintoret  is 
entirely  carried  away  by  his  sympathy  wdth  Michael  Angelo, 
and  conquers  him  in  his  own  field  ; — outflies  him  in  motion, 
outnumbers  him  in  multitude,  outwits  him  in  fancy,  and  out- 
flames  him  in  rage, — he  can  be  just  as  gentle  as  he  is  strong : 
and  that  Paradise,  though  it  is  the  largest  picture  in  the 
world,  without  any  question,  is  also  the  thoughtfullest,  and 
most  precious. 

The  Thoughtfullest ! — it  would  be  saying  but  little,  as  far 
as  Michael  Angelo  is  concerned. 

For  consider  of  it  yourselves.  You  have  heard,  from  your 
youth  up,  (and  all  educated  persons  have  heard  for  three 
centuries),  of  this  Last  Judgment  of  his,  as  the  most  sublime 
picture  in  existence. 

The  subject  of  it  is  one  which  should  certainly  be  interest- 
ing to  you,  in  one  of  two  ways. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  TINT ORE T.  233 

If  you  never  expect  to  be  judged  for  any  of  your  own 
doings,  and  the  tradition  of  the  coming  of  Christ  is  to  you  as 
an  idle  tale — still,  think  what  a wonderful  tale  it  would  be, 
were  it  well  told.  You  are  at  liberty,  disbelieving  it,  to  range 
the  fields — Elysian  and  Tartarean,  of  all  imagination.  You 
may  play  with  it,  since  it  is  false  ; and  what  a play  would  it 
not  be,  well  written  ? Do  you  think  the  tragedy,  or  the  mir- 
acle play,  or  the  infinitely  Divina  Commedia  of  the  Judgment 
of  the  astonished  living  who  were  dead  ; — the  undeceiving  of 
the  sight  of  every  human  soul,  understanding  in  an  instant  all 
the  shallow,  and  depth  of  past  life  and  future, — face  to  face 
with  both, — and  with  God  : — this  apocalypse  to  all  intellect, 
and  completion  to  all  passion,  this  minute  and  individual 
drama  of  the  perfected  history  of  separate  spirits,  and  of  their 
finally  accomplished  affections  !— think  you,  I say,  all  this  was 
well  told  by  mere  heaps  of  dark  bodies  curled  and  convulsed 
in  space,  and  fall  as  of  a crowd  from  a scaffolding,  in  writhed 
concretions  of  muscular  pain  ? 

But  take  it  the  other  way.  Suppose  you  believe,  be  it 
never  so  dimly  or  feebly,  in  some  kind  of  Judgment  that  is  to 
be  ; — that  you  admit  even  the  faint  contingency  of  retribution, 
and  can  imagine,  with  vivacity  enough  to  fear,  that  in  this 
life,  at  all  events,  if  not  in  another — there  may  be  for  you  a 
Visitation  of  God,  and  a questioning — What  hast  thou  done  ? 
The  picture,  if  it  is  a good  one,  should  have  a deeper  interest, 
surely  on  this  postulate  ? Thrilling  enough,  as  a mere  im- 
agination of  what  is  never  to  be— now,  as  a conjecture  of  what 
is  to  be,  held  the  best  that  in  eighteen  centuries  of  Christian- 
ity has  for  men’s  eyes  been  made  ; — Think  of  it  so  ! 

And  then,  tell  me,  whether  you  yourselves,  or  any  one  you 
have  known,  did  ever  at  any  time  receive  from  this  picture 
any,  the  smallest  vital  thought,  warning,  quickening,  or  help  ? 
It  may  have  appalled,  or  impressed  you  for  a time,  as  a thun- 
der-cloud might  : but  has  it  ever  taught  you  anything — chas- 
tised in  you  anything — confirmed  a purpose — fortified  a re- 
sistance purified  a passion  ? I know  that  for  you,  it  has 
done  none  of  these  things  ; and  I know  also  that,  for  others, 
it  has  done  very  different  things.  In  every  vain  and  proud 


234 


THE  RELATION  BETWEEN 


designer  wlio  has  since  lived,  that  dark  carnality  of  Michael 
Angelo’s  has  fostered  insolent  science,  and  fleshly  imagination. 
Daubers  and  blockheads  think  themselves  painters,  and  arb 
received  by  the  public  as  such,  if  they  know  how  to  fore- 
shorten  bones  and  decipher  entrails  ; and  men  with  capacity 
of  art  either  shrink  away  (the  best  of  them  always  do)  into 
petty  felicities  and  innocencies  of  genre  painting — landscapes, 
cattle,  family  breakfasts,  village  schoolings,  and  the  like  ; or 
else,  if  they  have  the  full  sensuous  art-faculty  that  would  have 
made  true  painters  of  them,  being  taught,  from  their  youth 
up,  to  look  for  and  learn  the  body  instead  of  the  spirit,  have 
learned  it,  and  taught  it  to  such  purpose,  that  at  this  hour, 
when  I speak  to  you,  the  rooms  of  the  Royal  Academy  of  Eng- 
land, receiving  also  what  of  best  can  be  sent  there  by  the 
masters  of  France,  contain  not  one  picture  honourable  to  the 
arts  of  their  age  ; and  contain  many  which  are  shameful  in 
their  record  of  its  manners. 

Of  that,  hereafter.  I will  close  to-day  by  giving  you  some 
brief  account  of  the  scheme  of  Tintoret’s  Paradise,  in  justifi- 
cation of  my  assertion  that  it  is  the  though tfullest  as  well  as 
mightiest  picture  in  the  world. 

In  the  highest  centre  is  Christ,  leaning  on  the  globe  of  the 
earth,  which  is  of  dark  crystal.  Christ  is  crowned  with  a 
glory  as  of  the  sun,  and  all  the  picture  is  lighted  by  that  glory, 
descending  through  circle  beneath  circle  of  cloud,  and  of  fly- 
ing or  throned  spirits. 

The  Madonna,  beneath  Christ,  and  at  some  interval  from 
Him,  kneels  to  Him.  She  is  crowned  with  the  Seven  stars, 
and  kneels  on  a cloud  of  angels,  whose  wings  change  into 
ruby  fire,  where  they  are  near  her. 

The  three  great  Archangels  meeting  from  three  sides,  fly 
towards  Christ.  Michael  delivers  up  his  scales  and  sword. 
He  is  followed  by  the  Thrones  and  Principalities  of  the 
Earth  ; so  inscribed — Throni — Principatus.  The  Spirits  of 
the  Thrones  bear  scales  in  their  hands  ; and  of  the  Prince- 
doms, shining  globes  : beneath  the  wings  of  the  last  of  these 
are  the  four  great  teachers  and  lawgivers,  St.  Ambrose.  St. 
Jerome,  St.  Gregory,  St.  Augustine,  and  behind  St.  Aug  us- 


MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  TINTORET.  235 

cine  stands  his  mother,  watching  him,  her  chief  joy  in  Para- 
dise. 

Under  the  Thrones,  are  set  the  Apostles,  St.  Paul  separated 
a little  from  the  rest,  and  put  lowest,  yet  principal ; under  St. 
Paul,  is  St.  Christopher,  bearing  a massive  globe,  with  a cross 
upon  it : but  to  mark  him  as  the  Christ-bearer,  since  here  in 
Paradise  he  cannot  have  the  child  on  his  shoulders,  Tintoret 
has  thrown  on  the  globe  a flashing  stellar  reflection  of  the  sun 
round  the  head  of  Christ. 

All  this  side  of  the  picture  is  kept  in  glowing  colour, — the 
four  Doctors  of  the  church  have  golden  mitres  and  mantles  ; 
except  the  Cardinal,  St.  Jerome,  who  is  in  burning  scarlet,  his 
naked  breast  glowing,  warm  with  noble  life, — the  darker  red 
of  his  robe  relieved  against  a white  glory. 

Opposite  to  Michael,  Gabriel  flies  toward  the  Madonna, 
having  in  his  hand  the  Annunciation  lily,  large,  and  triple- 
blossomed.  Above  him,  and  above  Michael,  equally,  extends 
a cloud  of  white  angels,  inscribed  “ Serafim  ; ” but  the  group 
following  Gabriel,  and  corresponding  to  the  Throni  following 
Michael,  is  inscribed  “ Cherubini.”  Under  these  are  the  great 
prophets,  and  singers  and  foretellers  of  the  happiness  or  of 
the  sorrow  of  time.  David,  and  Solomon,  and  Isaiah,  and 
Amos  of  the  herdsmen.  David  has  a colossal  golden  psaltery 
laid  horizontally  across  his  knees ; — two  angels  behind  him 
dictate  to  him  as  he  sings,  looking  up  towards  Christ ; but 
one  strong  angel  sweeps  down  to  Solomon  from  among  the 
cherubs,  and  opens  a book,  resting  it  on  the  head  of  Solomon, 
who  looks  down  earnestly,  unconscious  of  it ; — to  the  left  of 
David,  separate  from  the  group  of  prophets,  as  Paul  from  the 
apostles,  is  Moses,  dark-robed  in  the  full  light,  withdrawn 
far  behind  him,  Abraham,  embracing  Isaac  with  his  left  arm,  and 
near  him,  pale  St.  Agnes.  In  front,  nearer,  dark  and  colossal, 
stands  the  glorious  figure  of  Santa  Giustina  of  Padua  ; then  a 
little  subordinate  to  her,  St.  Catherine,  and,  far  on  the  left, 
and  high,  St.  Barbara  leaning  on  her  tower.  In  front,  nearer, 
flies  Raphael ; and  under  him  is  the  four-square  group  of  the 
Evangelists.  Beneath  them,  on  the  left,  Noah  ; on  the  right, 
Adam  and  Eve,  both  floating  unsupported  by  cloud  or  angel  • 


236 


TEE  RELATION  BETWEEN 


Noah  buoyed  by  the  Ark,  which  he  holds  above  him,  and  it  is 
this  into  which  Solomon  gazes  down,  so  earnestly.  Eve’s  face 
is,  perhaps,  the  most  beautiful  ever  painted  by  Tintoret — full 
in  light,  but  dark-eyed.  Adam  floats  beside  her,  his  figure  fad- 
ing into  a winged  gloom,  edged  in  the  outline  of  fig-leaves. 
Far  down,  under  these,  central  in  the  lowest  part  of  the  pict- 
ure, rises  the  Angel  of  the  Sea,  praying  for  Venice ; for  Tin- 
toret conceives  his  Paradise  as  existing  now,  not  as  in  the  fu- 
ture. I at  first  mistook  this  soft  Angel  of  the  Sea  for  the 
Magdalen,  for  he  is  sustained  by  other  three  angels  on  either 
side,  as  the  Magdalen  is,  in  designs  of  earlier  time,  because  of 
the  verse,  “ There  is  joy  in  the  presence  of  the  angels  over 
one  sinner  that  repenteth.”  But  the  Magdalen  is  on  the 
right,  behind  St.  Monica  ; and  on  the  same  side,  but  lowest 
of  all,  Rachel,  among  the  angels  of  her  children,  gathered  now 
again  to  her  for  ever. 

I have  no  hesitation  in  asserting  this  picture  to  be  by  far 
the  most  precious  work  of  art  of  any  kind  whatsoever,  now 
existing  in  the  world ; and  it  is,  I believe,  on  the  eve  of  final 
destruction  ; for  it  is  said  that  the  angle  of  the  great  council- 
chamber  is  soon  to  be  rebuilt ; and  that  process  will  involve 
the  destruction  of  the  picture  by  removal,  and,  far  more,  by 
repainting.  I had  thought  of  making  some  effort  to  save  it 
by  an  appeal  in  London  to  persons  generally  interested  in  the 
arts  ; but  the  recent  desolation  of  Paris  has  familiarized  us 
with  destruction,  and  I have  no  doubt  the  answer  to  me 
would  be,  that  Venice  must  take  care  of  her  own.  But  re- 
member, at  least,  that  I have  borne  witness  to  you  to-day  of 
the  treasures  that  we  forget,  while  we  amuse  ourselves  with 
the  poor  toys,  and  the  petty,  or  vile,  arts,  of  our  own  time. 

The  years  of  that  time  have  perhaps  come,  when  we  are  to 
be  taught  to  look  no  more  to  the  dreams  of  painters,  either 
for  knowledge  of  Judgment,  or  of  Paradise.  The  anger  of 
Heaven  will  not  longer,  I think,  be  mocked  for  our  amuse- 
ment ; and  perhaps  its  love  may  not  always  be  despised  by 
our  pride.  Believe  me,  all  the  arts,  and  all  the  treasures  of 
men,  are  fulfilled  and  preserved  to  them  only,  so  far  as  they 
have  chosen  first,  with  their  hearts,  not  the  curse  of  God,  but 


MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  TIN  TO  RET. 


237 


His  blessing.  Our  Earth  is  now  encumbered  with  ruin, 
Heaven  is  clouded  by  Death.  May  we  not  wisely  judge 
selves  in  some  things  now,  instead  of  amusing  ourselves 
the  painting  of  judgments  to  come  ? 


, our 
our- 
with 


The  Ancient  Shores  op  Arno, 


VAL  D’ARNO 

TEN  LECTURES 

ON 

THE  TUSCAN  ART  DIRECTLY  ANTECEDENT  TO  THE  FLOREN- 
TINE YEAR  OF  VICTORIES 

GIVEN  BEFORE  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  OXFORD  IN  MICHAELMAS 
TERM,  1873 


VAL  D’ARNO 


LECTURE  L 

NICHOLAS  THE  PISAN. 

1.  On  this  day,  of  this  month,  the  20th  of  October,  six 
hundred  and  twenty-three  years  ago,  the  merchants  and  trades- 
men of  Florence  met  before  the  church  of  Santa  Croce  ; 
marched  through  the  city  to  the  palace  of  their  Podesta  ; de- 
posed their  Podesta  ; set  over  themselves,  in  his  place,  a 
knight  belonging  to  an  inferior  city  ; called  him  “ Captain  of 
the  People ; ” appointed  under  him  a Signory  of  twelve  Ancients 
chosen  from  among  themselves  ; hung  a bell  for  him  on  the 
tower  of  the  Lion,  that  he  might  ring  it  at  need,  and  gave 
him  the  flag  of  Florence  to  bear,  half  white,  and  half  red. 

The  first  blow  struck  upon  the  bell  in  that  tower  of  the 
Lion  began  the  tolling  for  the  passing  away  of  the  feudal  sys- 
tem, and  began  the  joy-peal,  or  carillon,  for  whatever  deserves 
joy,  in  that  of  our  modern  liberties,  whether  of  action  or  of 
trade. 

2.  Within  the  space  of  our  Oxford  term  from  that  day, 
namely,  on  the  13th  of  December  in  the  same  year,  1250, 
died,  at  Ferentino,  in  Apulia,  the  second  Frederick,  Emperor 
of  Germany ; the  second  also  of  the  two  great  lights  which 
in  his  lifetime,  according  to  Dante’s  astronomy,  ruled  the 
world, — whose  light  being  quenched,  “ the  land  which  was 
once  the  residence  of  courtesy  and  valour,  became  the  haunt 


242 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


of  all  men  who  are  ashamed  to  be  near  the  good,  or  to  speak 
to  them.” 

“ In  sill  paese  chadice  e po  riga 
solea  valore  e cortesia  trovar  si 
prima  che  federigo  bavessi  briga, 
or  puo  sicuramente  indi  passarsi 
per  qualunche  lasciassi  per  vergogna 
di  ragionar  co  buoni,  e appressarsi.  ” 

Purg.,  Cant.  16. 

3.  The  “ Paese  che  Adice  e Po  riga”  is  of  course  Lom- 
bardy; and  might  have  been  enough  distinguished  by  the 
name  of  its  principal  river.  But  Dante  has  an  especial  reason 
for  naming  the  Adige.  It  is  always  by  the  valley  of  the  Adige 
that  the  power  of  the  German  Caisars  descends  on  Italy  ; and 
that  battlemented  bridge,  which  doubtless  many  of  you  re- 
member, thrown  over  the  Adige  at  Yerona,  was  so  built  that 
the  German  riders  might  have  secure  and  constant  access  to 
the  city.  In  which  city  they  had  their  first  stronghold  in 
Italy,  aided  therein  by  the  great  family  of  the  Montecchi, 
Montacutes,  Mont-aigu-s,  or  Montagues ; lords,  so  called,  of 
the  mountain  peaks  ; in  feud  with  the  family  of  the  Cappel- 
letti, — hatted,  or,  more  properly,  scarlet-hatted,  persons.  And 
this  accident  of  nomenclature,  assisted  by  your  present  famil- 
iar knowledge  of  the  real  contests  of  the  sharp  mountains 
with  the  flat  caps,  or  petasoi,  of  cloud,  (locally  giving  Mont 
Pilate  its  title,  “ Pileatus,”)  may  in  many  points  curiously 
illustrate  for  you  that  contest  of  Frederick  the  Second  with 
Innocent  the  Fourth,  wThich  in  the  good  of  it  and  the  evil 
alike,  represents  to  all  time  the  war  of  the  solid,  rational,  and 
earthly  authority  of  the  King,  and  State,  with  the  more  or 
less  spectral,  hooded,  imaginative,  and  nubiform  authority  of 
the  Pope,  and  Church. 

4.  It  will  be  desirable  also  that  you  clearly  learn  the  ma- 
terial relations,  governing  spiritual  ones, — as  of  the  Alps  to 
their  clouds,  so  of  the  plains  to  their  rivers.  And  of  these 
rivers,  chiefly  note  the  relation  to  each  other,  first,  of  the 
Adige  and  Po  ; then  of  the  Arno  and  Tiber.  For  the  Adige, 


NICHOLAS  THE  PISAN. 


243 


representing  among  the  rivers  and  fountains  of  waters  the 
channel  of  Imperial,  as  the  Tiber  of  the  Papal  power,  and  the 
strength  of  the  Coronet  being  founded  on  the  white  peaks 
that  look  down  upon  Hapsburg  and  Hohenzollern,  as  that  of 
the  Scarlet  Cap  in  the  marsh  of  the  Campagna,  “ quo  tenuis 
in  sicco  aqua  destituisset,”  the  study  of  the  policies  and  arts 
of  the  cities  founded  in  the  two  great  valleys  of  Lombardy 
and  Tuscany,  so  far  as  they  were  affected  by  their  bias  to  the 
Emperor,  or  the  Church,  will  arrange  itself  in  your  minds  at 
once  in  a symmetry  as  clear  as  it  will  be,  in  our  future  work, 
secure  and  suggestive. 

5.  “ Tenuis,  in  sicco.”  How  literally  the  words  apply,  as 
to  the  native  streams,  so  to  the  early  states  or  establishings 
of  the  great  cities  of  the  world.  And  you  will  find  that  the 
policy  of  the  Coronet,  with  its  tower-building  ; the  policy  of 
the  Hood,  with  its  dome-building  ; and  the  policy  of  the  bare 
brow,  with  its  cot-building, — the  three  main  associations  of 
human  energy  to  which  we  owe  the  architecture  of  our  earth, 
(in  contradistinction  to  the  dens  and  caves  of  it,) — are  curi- 
ously and  eternally  governed  by  mental  laws,  corresponding 
to  the  physical  ones  which  are  ordained  for  the  rocks,  the 
clouds,  and  the  streams. 

The  tower,  which  many  of  you  so  well  remember  the  daily 
sight  of,  in  your  youth,  above  the  “winding  shore”  of 
Thames, — the  tower  upon  the  hill  of  London  ; the  dome  which 
still  rises  above  its  foul  and  terrestrial  clouds  ; and  the  walls 
of  this  city  itself,  which  has  been  “alma,”  nourishing  in  gen- 
tleness, to  the  youth  of  England,  because  defended  from  ex- 
ternal hostility  by  the  difficultly  fordable  streams  of  its  plain, 
may  perhaps,  in  a few  years  more,  be  swept  away  as  heaps  of 
useless  stone  ; but  the  rocks,  and  clouds,  and  rivers  of  our 
country  will  yet,  one  day,  restore  to  it  the  glory  of  law,  of 
religion,  and  of  life. 

6.  I am  about  to  ask  you  to  read  the  hieroglyphs  upon  the 
architecture  of  a dead  nation,  in  character  greatly  resembling 
our  own, — in  laws  and  in  commerce  greatly  influencing  our 
own  ; — in  arts,  still,  from  her  grave,  tutress  of  the  present 
world.  I know  that  it  will  be  expected  of  me  to  explain  the 


244 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


merits  of  her  arts,  without  reference  to  the  wisdom  of  her 
laws ; and  to  describe  the  results  of  both,  without  investi- 
gating the  feelings  which  regulated  either.  I cannot  do  this; 
but  I will  at  once  end  these  necessarily  vague,  and  perhaps 
premature,  generalizations  ; and  only  ask  you  to  study  some 
portions  of  the  life  and  work  of  two  men,  father  and  son, 
citizens  of  the  city  in  which  the  energies  of  this  great  people 
were  at  first  concentrated ; and  to  deduce  from  that  study 
the  conclusions,  or  follow  out  the  inquiries,  which  it  may 
naturally  suggest. 

7.  It  is  the  modern  fashion  to  despise  Vasari.  He  is  indeed 
despicable,  whether  as  historian  or  critic, — not  least  in  his  ad- 
miration of  Michael  Angelo  ; nevertheless,  he  records  the 
traditions  and  opinions  of  his  day  ; and  these  you  must  accu- 
rately know,  before  you  can  wisely  correct.  I will  take 
leave,  therefore,  to  begin  to-day  with  a sentence  from  Vasari, 
which  many  of  you  have  often  heard  quoted,  but  of  which, 
perhaps,  few  have  enough  observed  the  value. 

“Niccola  Pisano  finding  himself  under  certain  Greek 
sculptors  who  were  carving  the  figures  and  other  intaglio 
ornaments  of  the  cathedral  of  Pisa,  and  of  the  temple  of  St. 
John,  and  there  being,  among  many  spoils  of  marbles, 
brought  by  the  Pisan  fleet,*  some  ancient  tombs,  there  was 
one  among  the  others  most  fair,  on  which  was  sculptured  the 
hunting  of  Meleager.”  f 

Get  the  meaning  and  contents  of  this  passage  well  into 
your  minds.  In  the  gist  of  it,  it  is  true,  and  very  notable. 

8.  You  are  in  mid  thirteenth  century  ; 1200-1300.  The 
Greek  nation  has  been  dead  in  heart  upwards  of  a thousand 
years  ; its  religion  dead,  for  six  hundred.  But  through  the 
wreck  of  its  faith,  and  death  in  its  heart,  the  skill  of  its 
hands,  and  the  cunning  of  its  design,  instinctively  linger.  In 

* “ Armata.”  The  proper  word  for  a land  army  is  “esercito.” 

t Vo1-  P-  60,  of  Mrs.  Foster’s  English  translation,  to  which  I shall 
always  refer,  in  order  that  English  students  may  compare  the  context  if 
they  wish.  But  the  pieces  of  English  which  I give  are  my  own  direct 
translation,  varying,  it  will  be  found,  often,  from  Mrs.  Foster’s,  in  mi- 
nute, hut  not  unimportant,  particulars. 


NICHOLAS  THE  PISAN. 


245 


the  centuries  of  Christian  power,  the  Christians  are  still 
unable  to  build  but  under  Greek  masters,  and  by  pillage  of 
Greek  shrines  ; and  their  best  workman  is  only  an  apprentice 
to  the  ‘ Grseculi  esurientes  ’ who  are  carving  the  temple  of 
St.  John. 

9.  Think  of  it.  Here  has  the  New  Testament  been  de- 
clared for  1200  years.  No  spirit  of  wisdom,  as  yet,  has  been 
given  to  its  workmen,  except  that  which  has  descended  from 
the  Mars  Hill  on  which  St.  Paul  stood  contemptuous  in  pity. 
No  Bezaleel  arises,  to  build  new  tabernacles,  unless  he  has 
been  taught  by  Daedalus. 

10.  It  is  necessary,  therefore,  for  you  first  to  know  pre- 
cisely the  manner  of  these  Greek  masters  in  their  decayed 
power ; the  manner  which  Vasari  calls,  only  a sentence  be- 
fore, “ That  old  Greek  manner,  blundering,  disproportioned,” 
— Goffa,  e sproporzionata. 

“Goffa,”  the  very  word  which  Michael  Angelo  uses  of 
Perugino.  Behold,  the  Christians  despising  the  Dunce  Greeks, 
as  the  Infidel  modernists  despise  the  Dunce  Christians.* 

11.  I sketched  for  you,  when  I was  last  at  Pisa,  a few 
arches  of  the  apse  of  the  duomo,  and  a small  portion  of  the 
sculpture  of  the  font  of  the  Temple  of  St.  John.  I have 
placed  them  in  your  rudimentary  series,  as  examples  of 
“quella  vecchia  maniera  Greca,  goffa  e sproporzionata.”  My 
own  judgment  respecting  them  is, — and  it  is  a judgment 
founded  on  knowledge  which  you  may,  if  you  choose,  share 
with  me,  after  working  with  me, — that  no  architecture  on 
this  grand  scale,  so  delicately  skilful  in  execution,  or  so 
daintily  disposed  in  proportion,  exists  elsewhere  in  the  world. 

12.  Is  Vasari  entirely  wrong  then  ? 

No,  only  half  wrong,  but  very  fatally  half  wrong.  There 
are  Greeks,  and  Greeks. 

This  head  with  the  inlaid  dark  iris  in  its  eyes,  from  the 
font  of  St.  John,  is  as  pure  as  the  sculpture  of  early  Greece,  a 
hundred  years  before  Phidias  ; and  it  is  so  delicate,  that  having 
drawn  with  equal  care  this  and  the  best  work  of  the  Lombardi 

■“Compare  “Ariadne  Florentina,”  § 46. 


246 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


at  Venice  (in  the  church  of  the  Miracoli),  I found  this  to 
possess  the  more  subtle  qualities  of  design.  And  yet,  in  the 
cloisters  of  St.  John  Lateran  at  Rome,  you  have  Greek  work, 
if  not  contemporary  with  this  at  Pisa,  yet  occupying  a paral- 
lel place  in  the  history  of  architecture,  which  is  abortive,  and 
monstrous  beyond  the  power  of  any  words  to  describe. 
Vasari  knew  no  difference  between  these  two  kinds  of  Greek 
work.  Nor  do  your  modern  architects.  To  discern  the  dif- 
ference between  the  sculpture  of  the  font  of  Pisa,  and  the  span- 
drils  of  the  Lateran  cloister,  requires  thorough  training  of 
the  hand  in  the  finest  methods  of  draughtsmanship  ; and,  sec- 
ondly, trained  habit  of  reading  the  mythology  and  ethics  of 
design.  I simply  assure  you  of  the  fact  at  present ; and  if 
you  work,  you  may  have  sight  and  sense  of  it. 

13.  There  are  Greeks,  and  Greeks,  then,  in  the  twelfth  cen- 
tury, differing  as  much  from  each  other  as  vice,  in  all  ages,  must 
differ  from  virtue.  But  in  Vasari’s  sight  they  are  alike  ; in 
ours,  they  must  be  so,  as  far  as  regards  our  present  purpose. 
As  men  of  a school,  they  are  to  be  summed  under  the  general 
name  of  ‘ Byzantines  ; ’ their  work  all  alike  showing  specific 
characters  of  attenuate,  rigid,  and  in  many  respects  offen- 
sively unbeautiful,  design,  to  which  Vasari’s  epithets  of  “goffa, 
e sproporzionata  ” are  naturally  applied  by  all  persons  trained 
only  in  modern  principles.  Under  masters,  then,  of  this  By- 
zantine race,  Niccola  is  working  at  Pisa. 

14.  Among  the  spoils  brought  by  her  fleets  from  Greece,  is 
a sarcophagus,  with  Meleager’s  hunt  on  it,  wrought  “ con 
bellissima  maniera,”  says  Vasari. 

You  may  see  that  sarcophagus — any  of  you  who  go  to  Pisa  ; 
— touch  it,  for  it  is  on  a level  with  your  hand  ; study  it,  as  Nic- 
cola studied  it,  to  your  mind’s  content.  Within  ten  yards  of 
it,  stand  equally  accessible  pieces  of  Niccola’s  own  work  and 
of  his  son’s.  Within  fifty  yards  of  it,  stands  the  Byzantine 
font  of  the  chapel  of  St.  John.  Spend  but  the  good  hours  of 
a single  day  quietly  by  these  three  pieces  of  marble,  and  you 
may  learn  more  than  in  general  any  of  you  bring  home  from 
an  entire  tour  in  Italy.  But  how  many  of  you  ever  yet  went 
into  that  temple  of  St  John,  knowing  what  to  look  for ; or 


NICHOLAS  THE  PISAN 


247 


spent  as  much  time  in  the  Campo  Santo  of  Pisa,  as  you  do  in 
Mr.  Ryman’s  shop  on  a rainy  day  ? 

15.  The  sarcophagus  is  not,  however,  (with  Vasari’s  pardon) 
in  * bellissima  maniera  ’ by  any  means.  But  it  is  in  the  clas- 
sical Greek  manner  instead  of  the  Byzantine  Greek  manner. 
You  have  to  learn  the  difference  between  these. 

Now  I have  explained  to  you  sufficiently,  in  “Aratra  Pente- 
lici,”  what  the  classical  Greek  manner  is.  The  manner  and 
matter  of  it  being  easily  summed — as  those  of  natural  and 
unaffected  life  ; — nude  life  when  nudity  is  right  and  pure  ; not 
otherwise.  To  Niccola,  the  difference  between  this  natural 
Greek  school,  and  the  Byzantine,  was  as  the  difference  between 
the  bull  of  Thurium  and  of  Delhi,  (see  Plate  19  of  “ Aratra 
Pentelici  ”). 

Instantly  he  followed  the  natural  fact,  and  became  the 
Father  of  Sculpture  to  Italy. 

16.  Are  we,  then,  also  to  be  strong  by  following  the  natural 
fact? 

Yes,  assuredly.  That  is  the  beginning  and  end  of  all  my 
teaching  to  you.  But  the  noble  natural  fact,  not  the  ignoble. 
You  are  to  study  men  ; not  lice  nor  entozoa.  And  you  are  to 
study  the  souls  of  men  in  their  bodies,  not  their  bodies  only. 
Mulready’s  drawings  from  the  nude  are  more  degraded  and 
bestial  than  the  worst  grotesques  of  the  Byzantine  or  even  the 
Indian  image  makers.  And  your  modern  mob  of  English  and 
American  tourists,  following  a lamplighter  through  the  Vati- 
can to  have  pink  light  thrown  for  them  on  the  Apollo  Belvi- 
dere,  are  farther  from  capacity  of  understanding  Greek  art, 
than  the  parish  charity  boy,  making  a ghost  out  of  a turnip, 
with  a candle  inside. 

17.  Niccola  followed  the  facts,  then.  He  is  the  Master  of 
Naturalism  in  Italy.  And  I have  drawn  for  you  his  lioness 
and  cubs,  to  fix  that  in  your  minds.  And  beside  it,  I put  the 
Lion  of  St.  Mark’s,  that  you  may  see  exactly  the  kind  of  change 
he  made.  The  Lion  of  St.  Mark’s  (all  but  his  wings,  wffiich 
have  been  made  and  fastened  on  in  the  fifteenth  century),  is 
in  the  central  Byzantine  manner ; a fine  decorative  piece  of 
work,  descending  in  true  genealogy  from  the  Lion  of  Nemea, 


248 


VAL  D'ABNO. 


and  the  crested  skin  of  him  that  clothes  the  head  of  the  Her- 
acles of  Camarina.  It  has  all  the  richness  of  Greek  Daedal 
work, — nay,  it  has  fire  and  life  beyond  much  Greek  Daedal 
work  ; but  in  so  far  as  it  is  non-natural,  symbolic,  decorative, 
and  not  like  an  actual  lion,  it  would  be  felt  by  Niccola  Pisano 
to  be  imperfect.  And  instead  of  this  decorative  evangelical 
preacher  of  a lion,  with  staring  eyes,  and  its  paw  on  a gospel, 
he  carves  you  a quite  brutal  and  maternal  lioness,  with  affec- 
tionate eyes,  and  paw  set  on  her  cub. 

18.  Fix  that  in  your  minds,  then.  Niccola  Pisano  is  the 
Master  of  Naturalism  in  Italy, — therefore  elsewhere  ; of  Nat- 
uralism, and  all  that  follows.  Generally  of  truth,  common- 
sense,  simplicity,  vitality, — and  of  all  these,  with  consummate 
power.  A man  to  be  enquired  about,  is  not  he  ? and  will  it 
not  make  a difference  to  you  whether  you  look,  when  you 
travel  in  Italy,  in  his  rough  early  marbles  for  this  fountain  of 
life,  or  only  glance  at  them  because  your  Murray’s  Guide  tells 
you, — and  think  them  “ odd  old  things  ” ? 

19.  We  must  look  for  a moment  more  at  one  odd  old  thing 
— the  sarcophagus  which  was  his  tutor.  Upon  it  is  carved  the 
hunting  of  Meleager  ; and  it  was  made,  or  by  tradition  re- 
ceived as,  the  tomb  of  the  mother  of  the  Countess  Matilda.  I 
must  not  let  you  pass  by  it  without  noticing  two  curious  co- 
incidences in  these  particulars.  First,  in  the  Greek  subject 
which  is  given  Niccola  to  read. 

The  boar,  remember,  is  Diana’s  enemy.  It  is  sent  upon  the 
fields  of  Calydon  in  punishment  of  the  refusal  of  the  Calydo- 
nians  to  sacrifice  to  her.  ‘ You  have  refused  me ,’  she  said ; 
‘ you  will  not  have  Artemis  Laphria,  Forager  Diana,  to  range 
in  your  fields.  You  shall  have  the  Forager  Swine,  instead.’ 

Meleager  and  Atalanta  are  Diana’s  servants, — servants  of 
all  order,  purity,  due  sequence  of  season,  and  time.  The 
orbed  architecture  of  Tuscany,  with  its  sculptures  of  the  suc- 
cession of  the  labouring  months,  as  compared  with  the  rude 
vaults  and  monstrous  imaginations  of  the  past,  was  again  the 
victory  of  Meleager. 

20.  Secondly,  take  what  value  there  is  in  the  tradition  that 
this  sarcophagus  was  made  the  tomb  of  the  mother  of  the 


Plate  I.— The  Pisan  Latona. 

Angle  of  Panel  of  the  Adoration,  in  Niccola’s  Pulpit. 


NICHOLAS  THE  PISAN. 


249 


Countess  Matilda.  If  you  look  to  the  fourteenth  chapter  of 
the  third  volume  of  “Modern  Painters,”  you  will  find  the 
mythic  character  of  the  Countess  Matilda,  as  Dante  employed 
it,  explained  at  some  length.  She  is  the  representative  of 
Natural  Science  as  opposed  to  Theological. 

21.  Chance  coincidences  merely,  these  ; but  full  of  teaching 
for  us,  looking  back  upon  the  past.  To  Niccola,  the  piece  of 
marble  was,  primarily,  and  perhaps  exclusively,  an  example  of 
free  chiselling,  and  humanity  of  treatment.  What  else  it  was 
to  him, — what  the  spirits  of  Atalanta  and  Matilda  could  be- 
stow on  him,  depended  on  what  he  was  himself.  Of  which 
Yasari  tells  you  nothing.  Not  whether  he  was  gentleman  or 
clown — rich  or  poor — soldier  or  sailor.  Was  he  never,  then, 
in  those  fleets  that  brought  the  marbles  back  from  the  rav- 
aged Isles  of  Greece  ? was  he  at  first  only  a labourer’s  boy 
among  the  scaffoldings  of  the  Pisan  apse, — his  apron  loaded 
with  dust — and  no  man  praising  him  for  his  speech  ? Rough 
he  was,  assuredly ; probably  poor  ; fierce  and  energetic,  be- 
yond even  the  strain  of  Pisa, — just  and  kind,  beyond  the  cus- 
tom of  his  age,  knowing  the  Judgment  and  Love  of  God  : and 
a workman,  with  all  his  soul  and  strength,  all  his  days. 

22.  You  hear  the  fame  of  him  as  of  a sculptor  only.  It  is 
right  that  you  should ; for  every  great  architect  must  be  a 
sculptor,  and  be  renowned,  as  such,  more  than  by  his  build- 
ing. But  Niccola  Pisano  had  even  more  influence  on  Italy  as 
a builder  than  as  a carver. 

For  Italy,  at  this  moment,  wanted  builders  more  than 
carvers  ; and  a change  was  passing  through  her  life,  of  which 
external  edifice  was  a necessary  sign.  I complained  of  you 
just  now  that  you  never  looked  at  the  Byzantine  font  in  the 
temple  of  St.  John.  The  sacristan  generally  will  not  let  you. 
He  takes  you  to  a particular  spot  on  the  floor,  and  sings  a 
musical  chord.  The  chord  returns  in  prolonged  echo  from 
the  chapel  roof,  as  if  the  building  were  all  one  sonorous  mar- 
ble befl. 

Which  indeed  it  is  ; and  travellers  are  always  greatly  amused 
at  being  allowed  to  ring  this  bell  ; but  it  never  occurs  to  them 
to  ask  how  it  came  to  be  ringable  : — how  that  tintinnabulate 


250 


VAL  D 'ARNO. 


roof  differs  from  tlie  dome  of  the  Pantheon,  expands  into  the 
dome  of  Florence,  or  declines  into  the  whispering  gallery  of 
St.  Paul’s. 

23.  When  you  have  had  full  satisfaction  of  the  tintinnabu- 
late  roof,  you  are  led  by  the  sacristan  and  Murray  to  Niccola 
Pisano’s  pulpit ; which,  if  you  have  spare  time  to  examine  it, 
you  find  to  have  six  sides,  to  be  decorated  wdth  tablets  of 
sculpture,  like  the  sides  of  the  sarcophagus,  and  to  be  sus- 
tained on  seven  pillars,  three  of  wrhich  are  themselves  carried 
on  the  backs  of  as  many  animals. 

All  this  arrangement  had  been  contrived  before  Niccola’s 
time,  and  executed  again  and  again.  But  behold ! between 
the  capitals  of  the  pillars  and  the  sculptured  tablets  there  are 
interposed  five  cusped  arches,  the  hollow  beneath  the  pulpit 
showing  dark  through  their  foils.  You  have  seen  such  cusped 
arches  before,  you  think  ? 

Yes,  gentlemen,  you  have ; but  the  Pisans  had  not.  And 
that  intermediate  layer  of  the  pulpit  means — the  change,  in  a 
word,  for  all  Europe,  from  the  Parthenon  to  Amiens  Cathe- 
dral. For  Italy  it  means  the  rise  of  her  Gothic  dynasty ; it 
mean  the  duomo  of  Milan  instead  of  the  temple  of  Paestum. 

24  I say  the  duomo  of  Milan,  only  to  put  the  change  well 
before  your  eyes,  because  you  all  know  that  building  so  welL 
The  duomo  of  Milan  is  of  entirely  bad  and  barbarous  Gothic, 
but  the  passion  of  pinnacle  and  fret  is  in  it,  visibly  to  you, 
more  than  in  other  buildings.  It  will  therefore  serve  to  show 
best  what  fulness  of  change  this  pulpit  of  Niccola  Pisano 
signifies. 

In  it  there  is  no  passion  of  pinnacle  nor  of  fret.  You  see 
the  edges  of  it,  instead  of  being  bossed,  or  knopped,  or  crock- 
eted,  are  mouldings  of  severest  line.  No  vaulting,  no  clustered 
shafts,  no  traceries,  no  fantasies,  no  perpendicular  flights  of 
aspiration.  Steady  pillars,  each  of  one  polished  block  ; useful 
capitals,  one  trefoiled  arch  between  them  ; your  panel  above 
it  ; thereon  your  story  of  the  founder  of  Christianity.  The 
whole  standing  upon  beasts,  they  being  indeed  the  foundation 
of  us,  (which  Niccola  knew  far  better  than  Mr.  Darwin) ; Eagle 
to  carry  your  Gospel  message — Dove  you  think  it  ought  to  be  ? 


Plate  II. — Niccola  Pisano’s  Pulpit. 


NICHOLAS  THE  PISAN 


251 


Eagle,  says  Niccola,  and  not  as  symbol  of  St.  John  Evangelist 
only,  but  behold  ! with  prey  between  its  claws.  For  the  Gos- 
pel, it  is  Niccola’s  opinion,  is  not  altogether  a message  that 
you  may  do  whatever  you  like,  and  go  straight  to  heaven. 
Finally,  a slab  of  marble,  cut  hollow  a little  to  bear  your  book  ; 
space  enough  for  you  to  speak  from  at  ease, — and  here  is  your 
first  architecture  of  Gothic  Christianity  ! 

25.  Indignant  thunder  of  dissent  from  German  doctors, — 
clamour  from  French  savants.  ‘ What ! and  our  Treves,  and 
our  Strasburg,  and  our  Poictiers,  and  our  Chartres!  And 
you  call  this  thing  the  first  architecture  of  Christianity  ! * 
Yes,  my  French  and  German  friends,  very  fine  the  buildings 
you  have  mentioned  are  ; and  I am  bold  to  say  I love  them  far 
better  than  you  do,  for  you  will  run  a railroad  through  any  of 
them  any  day  that  you  can  turn  a penny  by  it.  I thank  you 
also,  Germans,  in  the  name  of  our  Lady  of  Strasburg,  for  your 
bullets  and  fire  ; and  I thank  you,  Frenchmen,  in  the  name  of 
our  Lady  of  Rouen,  for  your  new  haberdashers’  shops  in  the 
Gothic  town  ; — meanwhile  have  patience  with  me  a little,  and 
let  me  go  on. 

26.  No  passion  of  fretwork,  or  pinnacle  whatever,  I said,  is 
in  this  Pisan  pulpit.  The  trefoiled  arch  itself,  pleasant  as  it 
is,  seems  forced  a little  ; out  of  perfect  harmony  with  the  rest 
(see  Plate  II.).  Unnatural,  perhaps,  to  Niccola? 

Altogether  unnatural  to  him,  it  is;  such  a thing  never 
would  have  come  into  his  head,  unless  some  one  had  shown 
it  him.  Once  got  into  his  head,  he  puts  it  to  good  use  ; per- 
haps even  he  will  let  this  somebody  else  put  pinnacles  and 
crockets  into  his  head,  or  at  least,  into  his  son’s,  in  a little  while. 
Pinnacles, — crockets, — it  may  be,  even  traceries.  The  ground- 
tier  of  the  baptistery  is  round-arched,  and  has  no  pinnacles  ; 
but  look  at  its  first  story.  The  clerestory  of  the  Duomo  of 
Pisa  has  no  traceries,  but  look  at  the  cloister  of  its  Campo 
Santo. 

27.  I pause  at  the  words  ; — for  they  introduce  a new  group 
of  thoughts,  which  presently  we  must  trace  farther. 

The  Holy  Field  ; — field  of  burial.  The  “ cave  of  Machpelah 
which  is  before  Mamre,”  of  the  Pisans.  “ There  they  buried 


252 


VAL  D'AliNO. 


Abraham,  and  Sarah  his  wife  ; there  they  buried  Isaac,  and 
Eebekah  his  wife  ; and  there  I buried  Leah.” 

How  do  you  think  such  a field  becomes  holy, — how  sep- 
arated, as  the  resting-place  of  loving  kindred,  from  that  other 
field  of  blood,  bought  to  bury  strangers  in  ? 

When  you  have  finally  succeeded,  by  your  gospel  of  mam- 
mon, in  making  all  the  men  of  your  own  nation  not  only 
strangers  to  each  other,  but  enemies ; and  when  your  every 
churchyard  becomes  therefore  a field  of  the  stranger,  the 
kneeling  hamlet  will  vainly  drink  the  chalice  of  God  in  the 
midst  of  them.  The  field  will  be  unholy.  No  cloisters  of 
noble  history  can  ever  be  built  round  such  an  one. 

28.  But  the  very  earth  of  this  at  Pisa  was  holy,  as  you 
know.  That  “ armata  ” of  the  Tuscan  city  brought  home  not 
only  marble  and  ivory,  for  treasure ; but  earth, — a fleet’s 
burden, — from  the  place  where  there  was  healing  of  soul’s 
leprosy  : and  their  field  became  a place  of  holy  tombs,  pre- 
pared for  its  office  with  earth  from  the  land  made  holy  by 
one  tomb  ; which  all  the  knighthood  of  Christendom  had 
been  pouring  out  its  life  to  win. 

29.  I told  you  just  now  that  this  sculpture  of  Niccola’s  was 
the  beginning  of  Christian  architecture.  How  do  you  judge 
that  Christian  architecture  in  the  deepest  meaning  of  it  to 
differ  from  all  other  ? 

All  other  noble  architecture  is  for  the  glory  of  living  gods 
and  men  ; but  this  is  for  the  glory  of  death,  in  God  and  man. 
Cathedral,  cloister,  or  tomb, — shrine  for  the  body  of  Christ, 
or  for  the  bodies  of  the  saints.  All  alike  signifying  death  to 
this  world  ; — life,  other  than  of  this  world. 

Observe,  I am  not  saying  how  far  this  feeling,  be  it  faith, 
or  be  it  imagination,  is  true  or  false  ; — I only  desire  you  to 
note  that  the  power  of  all  Christian  work  begins  in  the  niche 
of  the  catacomb  and  depth  of  the  sarcophagus,  and  is  to  the 
end  definable  as  architecture  of  the  tomb. 

30.  Not  altogether,  and  under  every  condition,  sanctioned 
in  doing  such  honour  to  the  dead  by  the  Master  of  it.  Not 
every  grave  is  by  His  command  to  be  worshipped.  Graves 
there  may  be — too  little  guarded,  yet  dishonourable  ; — “ ye 


JOHN  THE  PISAN. 


253 


are  as  graves  that  appear  not,  and  the  men  that  walk  over 
them  are  not  aware  of  them.5'  And  graves  too  much  guarded, 
yet  dishonourable,  “which  indeed  appear  beautiful  outwardly, 
but  are  within  full  of  all  uncleanness.  ” Or  graves,  themselves 
honourable,  yet  which  it  may  be,  in  us,  a crime  to  adorn. 
“For  they  indeed  killed  them,  and  ye  build  their  sepulchres.  ” 

Questions,  these,  collateral ; or  to  be  examined  in  due  time  ; 
for  the  present  it  is  enough  for  us  to  know  that  all  Christian 
architecture,  as  such,  has  been  hitherto  essentially  of  tombs. 

It  has  been  thought,  gentlemen,  that  there  is  a fine  Gothic 
revival  in  your  streets  of  Oxford,  because  you  have  a Gothic 
door  to  your  County  Bank  : 

Bemember,  at  all  events,  it  was  other  kind  of  buried  treas- 
ure, and  bearing  other  interest,  which  Niccola  Pisano’s  Gothic 
was  set  to  guard. 


LECTURE  n. 

JOHN  THE  PISAN. 

31.  I closed  my  last  lecture  with  the  statement,  on  which  I 
desired  to  give  you  time  for  reflection,  that  Christian  archi- 
tecture was,  in  its  chief  energy,  the  adornment  of  tombs, — 
having  the  passionate  function  of  doing  honour  to  the  dead. 

But  there  is  an  ethic,  or  simply  didactic  and  instructive 
architecture,  the  decoration  of  which  you  will  find  to  be  nor- 
mally representative  of  the  virtues  which  are  common  alike  to 
Christian  and  Greek.  And  there  is  a natural  tendency  to 
adopt  such  decoration,  and  the  modes  of  design  fitted  for  it, 
in  civil  buildings.* 

32.  Civil,  or  civic,  I say,  as  opposed  to  military.  But  again 
observe,  there  are  two  kinds  of  military  building.  One,  the 
robber’s  castle,  or  stronghold,  out  of  which  he  issues  to  pil- 
lage ; the  other,  the  honest  man’s  castle,  or  stronghold,  into 

*“  These  several  rooms  were  indicated  by  symbol  and  device:  Vic- 
tory for  the  soldier,  Hope  for  the  exile,  the  Muses  for  the  poets,  Mer- 
cury for  the  artists,  Paradise  for  the  preacher.  ” — (Sagacius  Gazata,  of 
the  Palace  of  Can  Grande,  I translate  only  Sismondi’s  quotation.) 


254 


VAL  L'ARNO. 


which  he  retreats  from  pillage.  They  are  much  like  each 
other  in  external  forms  ; — but  Injustice,  or  Unrighteousness, 
sits  in  the  gate  of  the  one,  veiled  with  forest  branches,  (see 
Giotto’s  painting  of  him) ; and  Justice  or  Righteousness  enters 
by  the  gate  of  the  other,  over  strewn  forest  branches.  Now, 
for  example  of  this  second  kind  of  military  architecture,  look 
at  Carlyle’s  account  of  Henry  the  Fowler,*  and  of  his  build- 
ing military  towns,  or  burgs,  to  protect  his  peasantry.  In 
such  function  you  have  the  first  and  proper  idea  of  a walled 
town,— a place  into  which  the  pacific  country  people  can  re- 
tire for  safety,  as  the  Athenians  in  the  Spartan  war.  Your 
fortress  of  this  kind  is  a religious  and  civil  fortress,  or  burg, 
defended  by  burgers,  trained  to  defensive  war.  Keep  always 
this  idea  of  the  proper  nature  of  a fortified  city : — Its  walls 
mean  protection, — its  gates  hospitality  and  triumph.  In  the 
language  familiar  to  you,  spoken  of  the  chief  of  cities:  “Its 
walls  are  to  be  Salvation,  and  its  gates  to  be  Praise.”  And 
recollect  always  the  inscription  over  the  north  gate  of  Siena  : 
“ Cor  magis  tibi  Sena  pandit.” — “More  than  her  gates,  Siena 
opens  her  heart  to  you.” 

33.  When  next  you  enter  London  by  any  of  the  great  lines, 
I should  like  you  to  consider,  as  you  approach  the  city,  what 
the  feelings  of  the  heart  of  London  are  likely  to  be  on  your 
approach,  and  at  what  part  of  the  railroad  station  an  inscrip- 
tion, explaining  such  state  of  her  heart,  might  be  most  fitly 
inscribed.  Or  you  would  still  better  understand  the  differ- 
ence between  ancient  and  modern  principles  of  architecture 
by  taking  a cab  to  the  Elephant  and  Castle,  and  thence  walk- 
ing to  London  Bridge  by  what  is  in  fact  the  great  southern 
entrance  of  London.  The  only  gate  receiving  you  is,  how- 
ever, the  arch  thrown  over  the  road  to  carry  the  South-East- 
ern Railway  itself ; and  the  only  exhibition  either  of  Salvation 
or  Praise  is  in  the  cheap  clothes’  shops  on  each  side ; and 
especially  in  one  colossal  haberdasher’s  shop,  over  which  you 
may  see  the  British  flag  waving  (in  imitation  of  Windsor  Cas- 
tle) when  the  master  of  the  shop  is  at  home. 

34.  Next  to  protection  from  external  hostility,  the  two  ne- 

* “ Frederick,”  vol.  i. 


JOHN  TEE  P1SAE. 


255 


cessities  in  a city  are  of  food  and  water  supply the  latter 
essentially  constant.  You  can  store  food  and  forage,  but 
water  must  flow  freely.  Hence  the  Fountain  and  the  Mercato 
become  the  centres  of  civil  architecture. 

Premising  thus  much,  I will  ask  you  to  look  once  more  at 
this  cloister  of  the  Campo  Santo  of  Pisa. 

35.  On  first  entering  the  place,  its  quiet,  its  solemnity,  the 
perspective  of  its  aisles,  and  the  conspicuous  grace  and  pre- 
cision of  its  traceries,  combine  to  give  you  the  sensation  of 
having  entered  a true  Gothic  cloister.  And  if  you  walk  round 
it  hastily,  and,  glancing  only  at  a fresco  or  two,  and  the  con- 
fused tombs  erected  against  them,  return  to  the  uncloistered 
sunlight  of  the  piazza,  you  may  quite  easily  carry  away  with 
you,  and  ever  afterwards  retain,  the  notion  that  the  Campo 
Santo  of  Pisa  is  the  same  kind  of  thing  as  the  cloister  of 
Westminster  Abbey. 

36.  I will  beg  you  to  look  at  the  building,  thus  photo- 
graphed, more  attentively.  The  “ long-drawn  aisle  ” is  here, 
indeed, — but  where  is  the  “fretted  vault”? 

A timber  roof,  simple  as  that  of  a country  barn,  and  of 
which  only  the  horizontal  beams  catch  the  eye,  connects  an 
entirely  plain  outside  wall  with  an  interior  one,  pierced  by 
round-headed  openings  ; in  which  are  inserted  pieces  of  com- 
plex tracery,  as  foreign  in  conception  to  the  rest  of  the  work 
as  if  the  Pisan  armata  had  gone  up  the  Rhine  instead  of  to 
Crete,  pillaged  South  Germany,  and  cut  these  pieces  of  tra- 
cery out  of  the  windows  of  some  church  in  an  advanced  stage 
of  fantastic  design  at  Nuremberg  or  Frankfort. 

37.  If  you  begin  to  question,  hereupon,  who  was  the  Ital- 
ian robber,  whether  of  marble  or  thought,  and  look  to  your 
Vasari,  you  find  the  building  attributed  to  John  the  Pisan  ; * 
—and  you  suppose  the  son  to  have  been  so  pleased  by  his 
father’s  adoption  of  Gothic  forms  that  he  must  needs  borrow 
them,  in  this  manner,  ready  made,  from  the  Germans,  and 
thrust  them  into  his  round  arches,  or  wherever  else  they 
would  go. 

‘The  present  traceries  are  of  Bfteenth  century  work,  founded  on 
Giovanni’s  design. 


258 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


We  will  look  at  something  more  of  his  work,  however,  bo 
fore  drawing  such  conclusion. 

38.  In  the  centres  of  the  great  squares  of  Siena  and  Peru- 
gia, rose,  obedient  to  engineers’  art,  two  perennial  fountains. 
Without  engineers’  art,  the  glens  which  cleave  the  sand-rock 
of  Siena  flow  with  living  water  ; and  still,  if  there  be  a hell 
for  the  forger  in  Italy,  he  remembers  therein  the  sweet  grotto 
and  green  wave  of  Fonte  Branda.  But  on  the  very  summit 
of  the  two  hills,  crested  by  their  great  civic  fortresses,  and  in 
the  centres  of  their  circuit  of  walls,  rose  the  two  guided  wells  ; 
each  in  basin  of  goodly  marble,  sculptured — at  Perugia,  by 
John  of  Pisa,  at  Siena,  by  James  of  Quercia. 

39.  It  is  one  of  the  bitterest  regrets  of  my  life  (and  I havi 
many  which  some  men  would  find  difficult  to  bear,)  that  I 
never  saw,  except  when  I was  a youth,  and  then  with  sealed 
eyes,  Jacopo  della  Quercia’s  fountain.*  The  Sienese,  a little 
while  since,  tore  it  down,  and  put  up  a model  of  it  by  a mod- 
em carver.  In  like  manner,  perhaps,  you  will  some  day  knock 
the  Elgin  marbles  to  pieces,  and  commission  an  Academician 
to  put  up  new  ones, — the  Sienese  doing  worse  than  that  (as 
if  the  Athenians  were  themselves  to  break  their  Phidias’  work). 

But  the  fountain  of  John  of  Pisa,  though  much  injured,  and 
glued  together  with  asphalt,  is  still  in  its  place. 

40.  I will  now  read  to  you  what  Vasari  first  says  of  him, 
and  it.  (I.  67.)  “Nicholas  had,  among  other  sons,  one  called 
John,  who,  because  he  always  followed  his  father,  and,  under 
his  discipline,  intended  (bent  himself  to,  with  a 'will,)  sculpture 
and  architecture,  in  a few  years  became  not  onty  equal  to  his 
father,  but  in  some  things  superior  to  him  ; wherefore  Nicho- 
las, being  now  old,  retired  himself  into  Pisa,  and  living  quietly 
there,  left  the  government  of  everything  to  his  son.  Accord- 
ingly, when  Pope  Urban  IV.  died  in  Perugia,  sending  was 
made  for  John,  who,  going  there,  made  the  tomb  of  that 
Pope  of  marble,  the  which,  together  with  that  of  Pope  Martin 
IV.,  was  afterwards  thrown  down,  when  the  Perugians  en- 

* I observe  that  Charles  Dickens  had  the  fortune  denied  to  me.  “ The 
market-place,  or  great  Piazza,  is  a large  square,  with  a great  broker* 
nosed  fountain  in  it.”  (“  Pictures  from  Italy.”) 


Plate  III. — The  Fountain  oe  Perugia. 


JOHN  THE  PISAN. 


257 


larged  their  vescovado ; so  that  only  a few  relics  are  seen 
sprinkled  about  the  church.  And  the  Perugians,  having  at 
the  same  time  brought  from  the  mountain  of  Pacciano,  two 
miles  distant  from  the  city,  through  canals  of  lead,  a most 
abundant  water,  by  means  of  the  invention  and  industry  of  a 
friar  of  the  order  of  St.  Silvester,  it  was  given  to  John  the 
Pisan  to  make  all  the  ornaments  of  this  fountain,  as  well  of 
bronze  as  of  marble.  On  which  he  set  hand  to  it,  and  made 
there  three  orders  of  vases,  two  of  marble  and  one  of  bronze. 
The  first  is  put  upon  twelve  degrees  of  twelve-faced  steps  ; 
the  second  is  upon  some  columns  which  put  it  upon  a level 
with  the  first  one;” — (that  is,  in  the  middle  of  it,)  “and  the 
third,  which  is  of  bronze,  rests  upon  three  figures  which  have 
in  the  middle  of  them  some  griffins,  of  bronze  too,  which  pour 
water  out  on  every  side.” 

41.  Many  things  we  have  to  note  in  this  passage,  but  first 
I will  show  you  the  best  picture  I can  of  the  thing  itself. 

The  best  I can  ; the  thing  itself  being  half  destroyed,  and 
what  remains  so  beautiful  that  no  one  can  now  quite  rightly 
draw  it ; but  Mr.  Arthur  Severn,  (the  son  of  Keats’s  Mr.  Sev- 
ern,) was  with  me,  looking  reverently  at  those  remains,  last 
summer,  and  has  made,  with  help  from  the  sun,  this  sketch 
for  you  (Plate  III.) ; entirely  true  and  effective  as  far  as  his 
time  allowed. 

Half  destroyed,  or  more,  I said  it  was, — Time  doing  grievous 
work  on  it,  and  men  worse.  You  heard  Vasari  saying  of  it, 
that  it  stood  on  twelve  degrees  of  twelve-faced  steps.  These 
—worn,  doubtless,  into  little  more  than  a rugged  slope — have 
been  replaced  by  the  moderns  with  four  circular  steps,  and 
an  iron  railing ; * the  bas-reliefs  have  been  carried  off  from 
the  panels  of  the  second  vase,  and  its  fair  marble  lips  choked 
with  asphalt : — of  what  remains,  you  have  here  a rough  but 
true  image. 

In  which  you  see  there  is  not  a trace  of  Gothic  feeling  or 
design  of  any  sort.  No  crockets,  no  pinnacles,  no  foils,  no 
vaultings,  no  grotesques  in  sculpture.  Panels  between  pillars, 

* In  Mr.  Severn’s  sketch,  the  form  of  the  original  foundation  is  ap- 
proximately restored. 


258 


VAL  D 'ARNO. 


panels  carried  on  pillars,  sculptures  in  those  panels  like  the 
Metopes  of  the  Parthenon  ; a Greek  vase  in  the  middle,  and 
griffins  in  the  middle  of  that.  Here  is  your  font,  not  at  all  of 
Saint  John,  but  of  profane  and  civil-engineering  John.  This 
is  his  manner  of  baptism  of  the  town  of  Perugia. 

42.  Thus  early,  it  seems,  the  antagonism  of  profane  Greek 
to  ecclesiastical  Gothic  declares  itself.  It  seems  as  if  in  Peru- 
gia, as  in  London,  you  had  the  fountains  in  Trafalgar  Square 
against  Queen  Elinor’s  Cross  ; or  the  viaduct  and  railway  sta- 
tion contending  with  the  Gothic  chapel,  which  the  master  of 
the  large  manufactory  close  by  has  erected,  because  he  thinks 
pinnacles  and  crockets  have  a pious  influence  ; and  will  pre- 
vent his  workmen  from  asking  for  shorter  hours,  or  more  wages. 

43.  It  seems  only  ; the  antagonism  is  quite  of  another  kind, 
— or,  rather,  of  many  other  kinds.  But  note  at  once  how 
complete  it  is — how  utterly  this  Greek  fountain  of  Perugia, 
and  the  round  arches  of  Pisa,  are  opposed  to  the  school  of 
design  which  gave  the  trefoils  to  Niccola’s  pulpit,  and  the 
traceries  to  Giovanni’s  Campo  Santo. 

The  antagonism,  I say,  is  of  another  kind  than  ours  ; but 
deep  and  wide  ; and  to  explain  it,  I must  pass  for  a time  to 
apparently  irrelevant  topics. 

You  were  surprised,  I hope,  (if  you  were  attentive  enough 
to  catch  the  points  in  what  I just  now  read  from  Vasari,)  at 
my  venturing  to  bring  before  you,  just  after  I had  been  using 
violent  language  against  the  Sienese  for  breaking  up  the  work 
of  Quercia,  that  incidental  sentence  giving  account  of  the 
much  more  disrespectful  destruction,  by  the  Perugians,  of  the 
tombs  of  Pope  Urban  IV.,  and  Martin  IV. 

Sending  was  made  for  John,  you  see,  first,  when  Pope 
Urban  IV.  died  in  Perugia — whose  tomb  was  to  be  carved  by 
John  ; the  Greek  fountain  being  a secondary  business.  But 
the  tomb  was  so  well  destroyed,  afterwards,  that  only  a few 
relics  remained  scattered  here  and  there. 

The  tomb,  I have  not  the  least  doubt,  was  Gothic  ; — and  the 
breaking  of  it  to  pieces  was  not  in  order  to  restore  it  after- 
wards, that  a living  architect  might  get  the  job  of  restoration. 
Here  is  a stone  out  of  one  of  Giovanni  Pisano’s  loveliest  Gothic 


JOHN  THE  PISAN 


259 


buildings,  which  I myself  saw  with  my  own  eyes  dashed  out, 
that  a modern  builder  might  be  paid  for  putting  in  another. 
But  Pope  Urban’s  tomb  was  not  destroyed  to  such  end.  There 
was  no  qualm  of  the  belly,  driving  the  hammer, — qualm  of 
the  conscience  probably ; at  all  events,  a deeper  or  loftier 
antagonism  than  one  on  points  of  taste,  or  economy. 

44.  You  observed  that  I described  this  Greek  profane  man- 
ner of  design  as  properly  belonging  to  civil  buildings,  as 
opposed  not  only  to  ecclesiastical  buildings,  but  to  military 
ones.  Justice,  or  Kighteousness,  and  Veracity,  are  the 
characters  of  Greek  art.  These  may  be  opposed  to  re- 
ligion, when  religion  becomes  fantastic ; but  they  must  be 
opposed  to  war,  when  war  becomes  unjust.  And  if,  per- 
chance, fantastic  religion  and  unjust  war  happen  to  go  hand 
in  hand,  your  Greek  artist  is  likely  to  use  his  hammer  against 
them  spitefully  enough. 

45.  His  hammer,  or  his  Greek  fire.  Hear  now  this  ex- 
ample of  the  engineering  ingenuities  of  our  Pisan  papa,  in 
his  younger  days. 

“ The  Florentines  having  begun,  in  Niccola’s  time,  to  throw 
down  many  towers,  which  had  been  built  in  a barbarous 
manner  through  the  whole  city  ; either  that  the  people  might 
be  less  hurt,  by  their  means,  in  the  fights  that  often  took 
place  between  the  Guelphs  and  Ghibellines,  or  else  that  there 
might  be  greater  security  for  the  State,  it  appeared  to  them 
that  it  would  be  very  difficult  to  ruin  the  Tower  of  the  Death- 
watch,  which  was  in  the  place  of  St.  John,  because  it  had  its 
walls  built  with  such  a grip  in  them  that  the  stones  could  not 
be  stirred  with  the  pickaxe,  and  also  because  it  was  of  the 
loftiest ; whereupon  Nicholas,  causing  the  tower  to  be  cut,  at 
the  foot  of  it,  all  the  length  of  one  of  its  sides ; and  closing 
up  the  cut,  as  he  made  it,  with  short  (wooden)  under-props, 
about  a yard  long,  and  setting  fire  to  them,  when  the  props 
were  burned,  the  tower  fell,  and  broke  itself  nearly  all  to 
pieces  : which  was  held  a thing  so  ingenious  and  so  useful 
for  such  affairs,  that  it  has  since  passed  into  a custom,  so  that 
when  it  is  needful,  in  this  easiest  manner,  any  edifice  may  be 
thrown  down.” 


2G0 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


46.  ‘When  it  is  needful.’  Yes;  but  when  is  that?  H 
instead  of  the  towers  of  the  Death-watch  in  the  city,  one 
could  ruin  the  towers  of  the  Death-watch  of  evil  pride  and 
evil  treasure  in  men’s  hearts,  there  would  be  need  enough 
for  such  work  both  in  Florence  and  London.  But  the  walls 
of  those  spiritual  towers  have  still  stronger  ‘ grip  ’ in  them, 
and  are  fireproof  with  a vengeance. 

“ Le  mure  me  parean  clie  ferro  fosse, 

• • • e el  mi  dixe,  il  fuoco  eterno 

Chentro  lalioca,  le  dimostra  rosse.1’ 

But  the  towers  in  Florence,  shattered  to  fragments  by  this 
ingenious  engineer,  and  the  tombs  in  Perugia,  which  his  son 
will  carve,  only  that  they  also  may  be  so  well  destroyed  that 
only  a few  relics  remain,  scattered  up  and  down  the  church, 
— are  these,  also,  only  the  iron  towers,  and  the  red-hot  tombs, 
of  the  city  of  Dis  ? 

Let  us  see. 

47.  In  order  to  understand  the  relation  of  the  tradesmen 
and  working  men,  including  eminently  the  artist,  to  the 
general  life  of  the  thirteenth  century,  I must  lay  before  you 
the  clearest  elementary  charts  I can  of  the  course  which  the 
fates  of  Italy  were  now  appointing  for  her. 

My  first  chart  must  be  geographical.  I want  you  to  have 
a clearly  dissected  and  closely  fitted  notion  of  the  natural 
boundaries  of  her  states,  and  their  relations  to  surrounding 
ones. 

Lay  hold  first,  firmly,  of  your  conception  of  the  valleys  of 
the  Po  and  the  Arno,  running  counter  to  each  other — opening 
east  and  opening  west, — Venice  at  the  end  of  the  one,  Pisa 
at  the  end  of  the  other. 

48.  These  two  valleys — the  hearts  of  Lombardy  and  Etruria 
— virtually  contain  the  life  of  Italy.  They  are  entirely  differ- 
ent in  character  : Lombardy,  essentially  luxurious  and  worldly, 
at  this  time  rude  in  art,  but  active  ; Etruria,  religious,  in- 
tensely imaginative,  and  inheriting  refined  forms  of  art  from 
before  the  days  of  Porsenna. 

49.  South  of  these,  in  mid-Italy,  you  have  Romagna, — the 


JOHN  THE  PISAN. 


261 


valley  of  the  Tiber.  In  that  valley,  decayed  Rome,  with  her 
lust  of  empire  inextinguishable  ; — no  inheritance  of  imagina- 
tive art,  nor  power  of  it ; dragging  her  own  ruins  hourly  into 
more  fantastic  ruin,  and  defiling  her  faith  hourly  with  more 
fantastic  guilt. 

South  of  Romagna,  you  have  the  kingdoms  of  Calabria  and 
Sicily,  — Magna  Graecia,  and  Syracuse,  in  decay  ; — strange 
spiritual  fire  from  the  Saracenic  east  still  lighting  the  volcanic 
land,  itself  laid  all  in  ashes. 

50.  Conceive  Italy  then  always  in  these  four  masses : Lom- 
bardy, Etruria,  Romagna,  Calabria. 

Now  she  has  three  great  external  powers  to  deal  with  : the 
western,  France — the  northern,  Germany — the  eastern,  Arabia. 
On  her  right  the  Frank  ; on  her  left  the  Saracen  ; above  her, 
the  Teuton.  And  roughly,  the  French  are  a religious  chivalry; 
the  Germans  a profane  chivalry  ; the  Saracens  an  infidel  chiv- 
alry. What  is  best  of  each  is  benefiting  Italy ; what  is  worst, 
afflicting  her.  And  in  the  time  we  are  occupied  with,  all  are 
afflicting  her. 

What  Charlemagne,  Barbarossa,  or  Saladin  did  to  teach 
her,  you  can  trace  only  by  carefullest  thought.  But  in  this 
thirteenth  century  all  these  three  powers  are  adverse  to  her, 
as  to  each  other.  Map  the  methods  of  their  adversity  thus  : — 

51.  Germany,  (profane  chivalry,)  is  vitally  adverse  to  the 
Popes  ; endeavouring  to  establish  imperial  and  knightly  power 
against  theirs.  It  is  fiercely,  but  frankly,  covetous  of  Italian 
territory,  seizes  all  it  can  of  Lombardy  and  Calabria,  and  with 
any  help  procurable  either  from  robber  Christians  or  robber 
Saracens,  strives,  in  an  awkward  manner,  and  by  open  force, 
to  make  itself  master  of  Rome,  and  all  Italy. 

52.  France,  all  surge  and  foam  of  pious  chivalry,  lifts  her- 
self in  fitful  rage  of  devotion,  of  avarice,  and  of  pride.  She 
is  the  natural  ally  of  the  church  ; makes  her  own  monks  the 
proudest  of  the  Popes ; raises  Avignon  into  another  Rome ; 
prays  and  pillages  insatiably ; pipes  pastoral  songs  of  inno- 
cence, and  invents  grotesque  variations  of  crime  ; gives  grace 
to  the  rudeness  of  England,  and  venom  to  the  cunning  of  Italy. 
She  is  a chimera  among  nations,  and  one  knows  not  whether 


262 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


to  admire  most  the  valour  of  Guiscard,  the  virtue  of  St.  Louis 
or  the  villany  of  his  brother. 

53.  The  Eastern  powers — Greek,  Israelite,  Saracen — are  at 
once  the  enemies  of  the  Western,  their  prey,  and  their  tutors. 

They  bring  them  methods  of  ornament  and  of  merchandise, 
and  stimulate  in  them  the  worst  conditions  of  pugnacity,  big- 
otry, and  rapine.  That  is  the  broad  geographical  and  polit- 
ical relation  of  races.  Next,  you  must  consider  the  conditions 
of  their  time. 

54.  I told  you,  in  my  second  lecture  on  Engraving,  that 
before  the  twelfth  century  the  nations  were  too  savage  to  be 
Christian,  and  after  the  fifteenth  too  carnal  to  be  Christian. 

The  delicacy  of  sensation  and  refinements  of  imagination 
necessary  to  understand  Christianity  belong  to  the  mid  period 
when  men  risen  from  a life  of  brutal  hardship  are  not  yet 
fallen  to  one  of  brutal  luxury.  You  can  neither  comprehend 
the  character  of  Christ  while  you  are  chopping  flints  for  tools, 
and  gnawing  raw  bones  for  food  ; nor  when  you  have  ceased 
to  do  anything  with  either  tools  or  hands,  and  dine  on  gilded 
capons.  In  Dante’s  lines,  beginning 

“ I saw  Bellincion  Berti  walk  abroad 
In  leathern  girdle,  with  a clasp  of  bone,” 

you  have  the  expression  of  his  sense  of  the  increasing  luxury 
of  the  age,  already  sapping  its  faith.  But  when  Bellincion 
Berti  walked  abroad  in  skins  not  yet  made  into  leather,  and 
with  the  bones  of  his  dinner  in  a heap  at  his  door,  instead  of 
being  cut  into  girdle  clasps,  he  was  just  as  far  from  capacity  of 
being  a Christian. 

55.  The  following  passage,  from  Carlyle’s  “ Chartism,”  ex- 
presses better  than  any  one  else  has  done,  or  is  likely  to  do  it, 
the  nature  of  this  Christian  era,  (extending  from  the  twelfth 
to  the  sixteenth  century,)  in  England, — the  like  being  entirely 
true  of  it  elsewhere  : — 

“ In  those  past  silent  centuries,  among  those  silent  classes, 
much  had  been  going  on.  Not  only  had  red  deer  in  the  New 
and  other  forests  been  got  preserved  and  shot ; and  treacher* 


JOHN  TEE  PISAN. 


263 


ies*  of  Simon  de  Montfort,  wars  of  Red  and  White  Roses, 
battles  of  Crecy,  battles  of  Bosworth,  and  many  other  battles, 
been  got  transacted  and  adjusted ; but  England  wholly,  not 
without  sore  toil  and  aching  bones  to  the  millions  of  sires  and 
the  millions  of  sons  of  eighteen  generations,  had  been  got 
drained  and  tilled,  covered  with  yellow  harvests,  beautiful  and 
rich  in  possessions.  The  mud-wooden  Caesters  and  Chesters 
had  become  steepled,  tile-roofed,  compact  towns.  Sheffield 
had  taken  to  the  manufacture  of  Sheffield  whittles.  Worstead 
could  from  wool  spin  yarn,  and  knit  or  weave  the  same  into 
stockings  or  breeches  for  men.  England  had  property  valu- 
able to  the  auctioneer ; but  the  accumulate  manufacturing, 
commercial,  economic  skill  which  lay  impalpably  warehoused 
in  English  hands  and  heads,  what  auctioneer  could  estimate  ? 

“ Hardly  an  Englishman  to  be  met  with  but  could  do 
something ; some  cunninger  thing  than  break  his  fellow- 
creature’s  head  with  battle-axes.  The  seven  incorporated 
trades,  with  their  million  guild-brethren,  with  their  hammers, 
their  shuttles,  and  tools,  what  an  army, — fit  to  conquer  that 
land  of  England,  as  we  say,  and  hold  it  conquered  ! Nay, 
strangest  of  all,  the  English  people  had  acquired  the  faculty 
and  habit  of  thinking, — even  of  believing  ; individual  con- 
science had  unfolded  itself  among  them  ; — Conscience,  and 
Intelligence  its  handmaid,  f Ideas  of  innumerable  kinds 

were  circulating  among  these  men  ; witness  one  Shakspeare, 
a wool-comber,  poacher  or  whatever  else,  at  Stratford,  in  War- 
wickshire, who  happened  to  write  books  ! — the  finest  human 
figure,  as  I apprehend,  that  Nature  has  hitherto  seen  fit  to 
make  of  our  widely  Teutonic  clay.  Saxon,  Norman,  Celt,  or 
Sarmat,  I find  no  human  soul  so  beautiful,  these  fifteen  hun- 
dred known  years  ; — our  supreme  modern  European  man. 

* Perhaps  not  altogether  so,  any  more  than  Oliver’s ! dear  papa  Car- 
lyle. We  may  have  to  read  him  also,  otherwise  than  the  British  popu- 
lace have  yet  read,  some  day. 

f Observe  Carlyle’s  order  of  sequence.  Perceptive  Reason  is  the 
Handmaid  of  Conscience,  not  Conscience  hers.  If  you  resolve  to  do 
right,  you  will  soon  do  wisely  ; but  resolve  only  to  do  wisely,  and  you 
will  never  do  right. 


264 


VAL  D'AHNO. 


TTim  England  had  contrived  to  realize : were  there  not 
ideas  ? 

“ Ideas  poetic  and  also  Puritanic,  that  had  to  seek  utter- 
ance in  the  notablest  way  ! England  had  got  her  Shaks- 
peare,  but  was  now  about  to  get  her  Milton  and  Oliver  Crom- 
well.  This,  too,  we  will  call  a new  expansion,  hard  as  it 
might  be  to  articulate  and  adjust  ; this,  that  a man  could 
actually  have  a conscience  for  his  own  behoof,  and  not  for  his 
priest’s  only ; that  his  priest,  be  he  who  he  might,  would 
henceforth  have  to  take  that  fact  along  with  him.” 

56.  You  observe,  in  this  passage,  account  is  given  you  of 
two  things — (a)  of  the  development  of  a powerful  class  of 
tradesmen  and  artists ; and,  (b)  of  the  development  of  an  in- 
dividual conscience. 

In  the  savage  times  you  had  simply  the  hunter,  digger,  and 
robber ; now  you  have  also  the  manufacturer  and  salesman. 
The  ideas  of  ingenuity  with  the  hand,  of  fairness  in  exchange, 
have  occurred  to  us.  "We  can  do  something  now  with  our 
fingers,  as  well  as  with  our  fists ; and  if  we  want  our  neigh- 
bours’ goods,  we  will  not  simply  carry  them  off,  as  of  old,  but 
offer  him  some  of  ours  in  exchange. 

57.  Again  ; whereas  before  we  were  content  to  let  our 
priests  do  for  us  all  they  could,  by  gesticulating,  dressing, 
sacrificing,  or  beating  of  drums  and  blowing  of  trumpets  ; and 
also  direct  our  steps  in  the  way  of  life,  without  any  doubt  on 
our  part  of  their  own  perfect  acquaintance  with  it, — we  have 
now  got  to  do  something  for  ourselves — to  think  something 
for  ourselves ; and  thus  have  arrived  in  straits  of  conscience 
which,  so  long  as  we  endeavour  to  steer  through  them  hon- 
estly, will  be  to  us  indeed  a quite  secure  way  of  life,  and  of 
all  living  wisdom. 

58.  Now  the  centre  of  this  new  freedom  of  thought  is  in 
Germany  ; and  the  power  of  it  is  shown  first,  as  I told  you  in 
my  opening  lecture,  in  the  great  struggle  of  Frederick  IL 
with  Pome.  And  German  freedom  of  thought  had  certainly 
made  some  progress,  when  it  had  managed  to  reduce  the 
Pope  to  disguise  himself  as  a soldier,  ride  out  of  Pome  by 
moonlight,  and  gallop  his  thirty-four  miles  to  the  seaside  be* 


Plate  IV.—  Norman  Imageky. 


JOHN  THE  PISAN. 


265 


fore  summer  dawn.  Here,  clearly,  is  quite  a new  state  of 
things  for  the  Holy  Father  of  Christendom  to  consider,  dur- 
ing such  wholesome  horse-exercise. 

59.  Again  ; the  refinements  of  new  art  are  represented  by 
France — centrally  by  St.  Louis  with  his  Sainte  Chapelle. 
Happily,  I am  able  to  lay  on  your  table  to-day — having  placed 
it  three  years  ago  in  your  educational  series — a leaf  of  a 
Psalter,  executed  for  St.  Louis  himself.  He  and  his  artists 
are  scarcely  out  of  their  savage  life  yet,  and  have  no  notion 
of  adorning  the  Psalms  better  than  by  pictures  of  long-necked 
cranes,  long-eared  rabbits,  long-tailed  lions,  and  red  and 
white  goblins  putting  their  tongues  out.*  But  in  refinement 
of  touch,  in  beauty  of  colour,  in  the  human  faculties  of  order 
and  grace,  they  are  long  since,  evidently,  past  the  flint  and 
bone  stage, — refined  enough,  now, — subtle  enough,  now,  to 
learn  anything  that  is  pretty  and  fine,  whether  in  theology  or 
any  other  matter. 

60.  Lastly,  the  new  principle  of  Exchange  is  represented 
by  Lombardy  and  Venice,  to  such  purpose  that  your  Mer- 
chant and  Jew  of  Venice,  and  your  Lombard  of  Lombard 
Street,  retain  some  considerable  influence  on  your  minds, 
even  to  this  day. 

And  in  the  exact  midst  of  all  such  transition,  behold,  Etru- 
ria with  her  Pisans — her  Florentines, — receiving,  resisting, 
and  reigning  over  all : pillaging  the  Saracens  of  their  marbles 
— binding  the  French  bishops  in  silver  chains ; — shattering 
the  towers  of  German  tyranny  into  small  pieces, — building 
with  strange  jewellery  the  belfry  tower  for  newly-conceived 
Christianity  ; — and,  in  sacred  picture,  and  sacred  song,  reach- 
ing the  height,  among  nations,  most  passionate,  and  most  pure. 

I must  close  my  lecture  without  indulging  myself  yet,  by 
addition  of  detail ; requesting  you,  before  W'e  next  meet,  to 
fix  these  general  outlines  in  your  minds,  so  that,  without  dis- 
turbing their  distinctness,  I may  trace  in  the  sequel  the  rela- 
tions of  Italian  Art  to  these  political  and  religious  powers  ; 

* I cannot  go  to  the  expense  of  engraving  this  most  subtle  example  ; 
hut  Plate  IY.  shows  the  average  conditions  of  temper  and  imagination 
in  religious  ornamental  work  of  the  time. 


266 


VAL  D 'ARNO. 


and  determine  with  what  force  of  passionate  sympathy,  or 
fidelity  of  resigned  obedience,  the  Pisan  artists,  father  and 
son,  executed  the  indignation  of  Florence  and  fulfilled  the 
piety  of  Orvieto. 


LECTURE  ITL 

SHIELD  AND  APBON. 

61.  I laid  before  you,  in  my  last  lecture,  first  lines  of  the 
chart  of  Italian  history  in  the  thirteenth  century,  which  I 
hope  gradually  to  fill  with  colour,  and  enrich,  to  such  degree 
as  may  be  sufficient  for  all  comfortable  use.  But  I indicated, 
as  the  more  special  subject  of  our  immediate  study,  the  nas- 
cent power  of  liberal  thought,  and  liberal  art,  over  dead  tra- 
dition and  rude  workmanship. 

To-day  I must  ask  you  to  examine  in  greater  detail  the 
exact  relation  of  this  liberal  art  to  the  illiberal  elements  which 
surrounded  it. 

62.  You  do  not  often  hear  me  use  that  word  “ Liberal  ” in 
any  favourable  sense.  I do  so  now,  because  I use  it  also  in  a 
very  narrow  and  exact  sense.  I mean  that  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury is,  in  Italy’s  year  of  life,  her  17th  of  March.  In  the 
light  of  it,  she  assumes  her  toga  virilis  ; and  it  is  sacred  to 
her  god  Liber. 

63.  To  her  god  Liber, — observe  : not  Dionusos,  still  less 
Bacchus,  but  her  own  ancient  and  simple  deity.  And  if  you 
have  read  with  some  care  the  statement  I gave  you,  with 
Carlyle’s  help,  of  the  moment  and  manner  of  her  change  from 
savageness  to  dexterity,  and  from  rudeness  to  refinement  of 
life,  you  will  hear,  familiar  as  the  lines  are  to  you,  the  invoca- 
tion in  the  first  Georgic  with  a new  sense  of  its  meaning : — 

“Vos.  O clarissima  mundi 
Lamina,  labentem  coelo  quae  ducitis  annum, 

Liber,  et  alma  Ceres  ; vestro  si  munere  tellus 
Chaoniam  pingui  glandem  mutavit  arista, 

Poculaqu'  inventis  Acheloia  miscuit  uvis, 

Munera  vestra  cano.  ’’ 


SHIELD  AND  APRON. 


267 


These  gifts,  innocent,  rich,  full  of  life,  exquisitely  beautiful 
in  order  and  grace  of  growth,  I have  thought  best  to  symbol- 
ize to  you,  in  the  series  of  types  of  the  power  of  the  Greek 
gods,  placed  in  your  educational  series,  by  the  blossom  of 
the  wild  strawberry  ; which  in  rising  from  its  trine  cluster  of 
trine  leaves, — itself  as  beautiful  as  a white  rose,  and  always 
single  on  its  stalk,  like  an  ear  of  corn,  yet  with  a succeeding 
blossom  at  its  side,  and  bearing  a fruit  which  is  as  distinctly 
a group  of  seeds  as  an  ear  of  corn  itself,  and  yet  is  the  pleas- 
antest to  taste  of  all  the  pleasant  things  prepared  by  nature 
for  the  food  of  men,* — may  accurately  symbolize,  and  help 
you  to  remember,  the  conditions  of  this  liberal  and  delight- 
ful, yet  entirely  modest  and  orderly,  art,  and  thought. 

64.  You  will  find  in  the  fourth  of  my  inaugural  lectures,  at 
the  98th  paragraph,  this  statement, — much  denied  by  modern 
artists  and  authors,  but  nevertheless  quite  unexceptionally 
true, — that  the  entire  vitality  of  art  depends  upon  its  having 
for  object  either  to  state  a true  thing,  or  adorn  a serviceable  one. 
The  two  functions  of  art  in  Italy,  in  this  entirely  liberal  and 
virescent  phase  of  it, — virgin  art,  we  may  call  it,  retaining  the 
most  literal  sense  of  the  words  virga  and  virgo, — are  to  mani- 
fest the  doctrines  of  a religion  which  now,  for  the  first  time, 
men  had  soul  enough  to  understand  ; and  to  adorn  edifices  or 
dress,  with  which  the  completed  politeness  of  daily  life  might 
be  invested,  its  convenience  completed,  and  its  decorous  and 
honourable  pride  satisfied. 

65.  That  pride  was,  among  the  men  who  gave  its  character 
to  the  century,  in  honourableness  of  private  conduct,  and  use- 
ful magnificence  of  public  art.  Not  of  private  or  domestic 
art : observe  this  very  particularly. 

“ Such  was  the  simplicity  of  private  manners,” — (I  am  now 
quoting  Sismondi,  but  with  the  fullest  ratification  that  my 
knowledge  enables  me  to  give,) — “ and  the  economy  of  the 
richest  citizens,  that  if  a city  enjoyed  repose  only  for  a few 
years,  it  doubled  its  revenues,  and  found  itself,  in  a sort,  en- 

* I am  sorry  to  pack  my  sentences  together  in  this  confused  way. 
But  I have  much  to  say  ; and  cannot  always  stop  to  polish  or  adjust  it 
as  I used  to  do. 


268 


VAL  D 'ARNO. 


cumbered  with  its  riches.  The  Pisans  knew  neither  of  the  lux- 
ury of  the  table,  nor  that  of  furniture,  nor  that  of  a number  of 
servants ; yet  they  were  sovereigns  of  the  whole  of  Sardinia, 
Corsica,  and  Elba,  had  colonies  at  St.  Jean  d’Acre  and  Constan- 
tinople, and  their  merchants  in  those  cities  carried  on  the  most 
extended  commerce  with  the  Saracens  and  Greeks.”  * 

66.  “ And  in  that  time,”  (I  now  give  you  my  own  transla- 
tion of  Giovanni  Villani,)  “the  citizens  of  Florence  lived 
sober,  and  on  coarse  meats,  and  at  little  cost ; and  had  many 
customs  and  playfulnesses  which  were  blunt  and  rude  ; and 
they  dressed  themselves  and  their  wives  with  coarse  cloth ; 
many  wore  merely  skins,  with  no  lining,  and  all  had  only 
leathern  buskins  ; f and  the  Florentine  ladies,  plain  shoes  and 
stockings  with  no  ornaments  ; and  the  best  of  them  were  con- 
tent with  a close  gown  of  coarse  scarlet  of  Cyprus,  or  camlet 
girded  with  an  old-fashioned  clasp-girdle  ; and  a mantle  over 
all,  lined  with  vaire,  with  a hood  above  ; and  that,  they  threw 
over  their  heads.  The  women  of  lower  rank  were  dressed  in 
the  same  manner,  with  coarse  green  Cambray  cloth ; fifty 
pounds  was  the  ordinary  bride’s  dowry,  and  a hundred  or  a 
hundred  and  fifty  would  in  those  times  have  been  held  brill- 
iant, (‘  isfolgorata,’  dazzling,  with  sense  of  dissipation  or  ex- 
travagance ;)  and  most  maidens  were  twenty  or  more  before 
they  married.  Of  such  gross  customs  were  then  the  Floren- 
tines ; but  of  good  faith,  and  loyal  among  themselves  and  in 
their  state  ; and  in  their  coarse  life,  and  poverty,  did  more  and 


*Sismondi  ; French  translation,  Brussels,  1838  ; vol.  ii. , p.  275. 
f I find  this  note  for  expansion  on  the  margin  of  my  lecture,  but  had 
no  time  to  work  it  out : — ‘ This  lower  class  should  be  either  barefoot,  or 
have  strong  shoes — wooden  clogs  good.  Pretty  Boulogne  sabot  with 
purple  stockings.  Waterloo  Road — little  girl  with  her  hair  in  curlpapers, 
— a coral  necklace  round  her  neck — the  neck  bare — and  her  boots  of 
thin  stuff,  worn  out,  with  her  toes  coming  through,  and  rags  hanging 
from  her  heels, — a profoundly  accurate  type  of  English  national  and 
political  life.  Your  hair  in  curlpapers — borrowing  tongs  from  every 
foreign  nation,  to  pinch  you  into  manners.  The  rich  ostentatiously 
wearing  coral  about  the  bare  neck  ; and  the  poor — gold  as  the  stones, 
and  indecent.* 


SHIELD  AND  APRON. 


269 


braver  things  than  are  done  in  our  days  with  more  refinement 
and  riches.” 

67.  I detain  you  a moment  at  the  words  “scarlet  of  Cyprus, 
or  camlet.” 

Observe  that  camelot  (camelet)  from  Ka/jLrjXuTrj,  camel’s  skin, 
is  a stuff  made  of  silk  and  camel’s  hair  originally,  afterwards 
of  silk  and  wool.  At  Florence,  the  camel’s  hair  would  always 
have  reference  to  the  Baptist,  who,  as  you  know,  in  Lippi’s 
picture,  wears  the  camel’s  skin  itself,  made  into  a Florentine 
dress,  such  as  Villani  has  just  described,  “col  tassello  sopra,” 
with  the  hood  above.  Do  you  see  how  important  the  word 
“ Capulet  ” is  becoming  to  us,  in  its  main  idea  ? 

68.  Not  in  private  nor  domestic  art,  therefore,  I repeat  to 
you,  but  in  useful  magnificence  of  public  art,  these  citizens 
expressed  their  pride  : — and  that  public  art  divided  itself  into 
two  branches — civil,  occupied  upon  ethic  subjects  of  sculpture 
and  painting  ; and  religious,  occupied  upon  scriptural  or  tra- 
ditional histories,  in  treatment  of  which,  nevertheless,  the 
nascent  power  and  liberality  of  thought  were  apparent,  not 
only  in  continual  amplification  and  illustration  of  scriptural 
story  by  the  artist’s  own  invention,  but  in  the  acceptance  of 
profane  mythology,  as  part  of  the  Scripture,  or  tradition, 
given  by  Divine  inspiration. 

69.  Nevertheless,  for  the  provision  of  things  necessary  in 
domestic  life,  there  developed  itself,  together  with  the  group 
of  inventive  artists  exercising  these  nobler  functions,  a vast 
body  of  craftsmen,  and,  literally,  manufacturers,  workers  by 
hand,  who  associated  themselves,  as  chance,  tradition,  or  the 
accessibility  of  material  directed,  in  towns  which  thencefor- 
ward occupied  a leading  position  in  commerce,  as  producers 
of  a staple  of  excellent,  or  perhaps  inimitable,  quality  ; and 
the  linen  or  cambric  of  Cambray,  the  lace  of  Mechlin,  the  wool 
of  Worstead,  and  the  steel  of  Milan,  implied  the  tranquil  and 
hereditary  skill  of  multitudes,  living  in  wealthy  industry,  and 
humble  honour. 

70.  Among  these  artisans,  the  weaver,  the  ironsmith,  the 
goldsmith,  the  carpenter,  and  the  mason  necessarily  took  the 
principal  rank,  and  on  their  occupations  the  more  refined  arts 


270 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


were  wholesomely  based,  so  that  the  five  businesses  may  be 
more  completely  expressed  thus  : — 

The  weaver  and  embroiderer, 

The  iron  smith  and  armourer, 

The  goldsmith  and  jeweller, 

The  carpenter  and  engineer, 

The  stonecutter  and  painter. 

You  have  only  once  to  turn  over  the  leaves  of  Lionardo’s 
sketch  book,  in  the  Ambrosian  Library,  to  see  how  carpentry 
is  connected  with  engineering, — the  architect  was  always  a 
stonecutter,  and  the  stonecutter  not  often  practically  sepa- 
rate, as  yet,  from  the  painter,  and  never  so  in  general  con- 
ception of  function.  You  recollect,  at  a much  later  period, 
Kent’s  description  of  Cornwall’s  steward  : 

“Kent.  You  cowardly  rascal! — nature  disclaims  in  thee,  a tailor 
made  thee  ! 

Cornwall.  Thou  art  a strange  fellow — a tailor  make  a man  ? 

Kent.  Ay,  sir ; a stonecutter,  or  a painter,  could  not  have  made 
him  so  ill  ; though  they  had  been  but  two  hours  at  the  trade.  ” 

71.  You  may  consider  then  this  group  of  artizans  with  the 
merchants,  as  now  forming  in  each  town  an  important  Tiers 
Etat,  or  Third  State  of  the  people,  occupied  in  service,  first, 
of  the  ecclesiastics,  who  in  monastic  bodies  inhabited  the 
cloisters  round  each  church  ; and,  secondly,  of  the  knights, 
who,  with  their  retainers,  occupied,  each  family  their  own 
fort,  in  allied  defence  of  their  appertaining  streets. 

72.  A Third  Estate,  indeed  ; but  adverse  alike  to  both  the 
others,  to  Montague  as  to  Capulet,  when  they  become  disturb- 
ers of  the  public  peace  ; and  having  a pride  of  its  own, — 
hereditary  still,  but  consisting  in  the  inheritance  of  skill  and 
knowledge  rather  than  of  blood, — which  expressed  the  sense 
of  such  inheritance  by  taking  its  name  habitually  from  the 
master  rather  than  the  sire  ; and  which,  in  its  natural  antagon- 
ism to  dignities  won  only  by  violence,  or  recorded  only  by 
heraldry,  you  may  think  of  generally  as  the  race  whose  bear- 
ing is  the  Apron,  instead  of  the  shield. 

73.  When,  however,  these  two,  or  in  perfect  subdivision 


SHIELD  AND  APRON. 


271 


three,  bodies  of  men,  lived  in  harmony, — the  knights  remain- 
ing true  to  the  State,  the  clergy  to  their  faith,  and  the  work- 
men to  their  craft, — conditions  of  national  force  were  arrived 
at,  under  which  all  the  great  art  of  the  middle  ages  was  ac- 
complished. The  pride  of  the  knights,  the  avarice  of  the 
priests,  and  the  gradual  abasement  of  character  in  the  crafts 
man,  changing  him  from  a citizen  able  to  wield  either  tools  in 
peace  or  weapons  in  war,  to  a dull  tradesman,  forced  to  pay 
mercenary  troops  to  defend  his  shop  door,  are  the  direct 
causes  of  common  ruin  towards  the  close  of  the  sixteenth 
century. 

74.  But  the  deep  underlying  cause  of  the  decline  in  national 
character  itself,  was  the  exhaustion  of  the  Christian  faith. 
None  of  its  practical  claims  were  avouched  either  by  reason 
or  experience  ; and  the  imagination  grew  weary  of  sustaining 
them  in  despite  of  both.  Men  could  not,  as  their  powers  of 
reflection  became  developed,  steadily  conceive  that  the  sin3 
of  a life  might  be  done  away  with,  by  finishing  it  with  Mary’s 
name  on  the  lips ; nor  could  tradition  of  miracle  for  ever 
resist  the  personal  discovery,  made  by  each  rude  disciple  by 
himself,  that  he  might  pray  to  all  the  saints  for  a twelvemonth 
together,  and  yet  not  get  what  he  asked  for. 

75.  The  Keformation  succeeded  in  proclaiming  that  ex- 
isting Christianity  was  a lie  ; but  substituted  no  theory  of  it 
which  could  be  more  rationally  or  credibly  sustained  ; and 
ever  since,  the  religion  of  educated  persons  throughout 
Europe  has  been  dishonest  or  ineffectual ; it  is  only  among 
the  labouring  peasantry  that  the  grace  of  a pure  Catholicism, 
and  the  patient  simplicities  of  the  Puritan,  maintain  their 
imaginative  dignity,  or  assert  their  practical  use. 

76.  The  existence  of  the  nobler  arts,  however,  involves  the 
harmonious  life  and  vital  faith  of  the  three  classes  whom  we 
have  just  distinguished  ; and  that  condition  exists,  more  or 
less  disturbed,  indeed,  by  the  vices  inherent  in  each  class,  yet, 
on  the  whole,  energetically  and  productively,  during  the 
twelfth,  thirteenth,  fourteenth,  and  fifteenth  centuries.  But 
our  present  subject  being  Architecture  only,  I will  limit  your 
attention  altogether  to  the  state  of  society  in  the  great  age  of 


272 


VAL  D 'ARNO. 


architecture,  the  thirteenth  century.  A great  age  in  all  ways ; 
but  most  notably  so  in  the  correspondence  it  presented,  up  to 
a just  and  honourable  point,  with  the  utilitarian  energy  of 
our  own  days. 

77.  The  increase  of  wealth,  the  safety  of  industry,  and  the 
conception  of  more  convenient  furniture  of  life,  to  which  we 
must  attribute  the  rise  of  the  entire  artist  class,  were  accom- 
panied, in  that  century,  by  much  enlargement  in  the  concep- 
tion of  useful  public  works  : and — not  by  private  enterprise, — • 
that  idle  persons  might  get  dividends  out  of  the  public  pocket, 
— but  by  public  enterprise, — each  citizen  paying  down  at  once 
his  share  of  what  was  necessary  to  accomplish  the  benefit  to 
the  State, — great  architectural  and  engineering  efforts  were 
made  for  the  common  service.  Common,  observe ; but  not, 
in  our  present  sense,  republican.  One  of  the  most  ludi- 
crous sentences  ever  written  in  the  blindness  of  party  spirit 
is  that  of  Sismondi,  in  which  he  declares,  thinking  of  these 
public  works  only,  that  ‘the  architecture  of  the  thirteenth 
century  is  entirely  republican.’  The  architecture  of  the  thir- 
teenth century  is,  in  the  mass  of  it,  simply  baronial  or  ec- 
clesiastical ; it  is  of  castles,  palaces,  or  churches  ; but  it  is 
true  that  splendid  civic  works  were  also  accomplished  by 
the  vigour  of  the  newly  risen  popular  power. 

“The  canal  named  Naviglio  Grande,  which  brings  the 
waters  of  the  Ticino  to  Milan,  traversing  a distance  of  thirty 
miles,  was  undertaken  in  1179,  recommended  in  1257,  and, 
soon  after,  happily  terminated  ; in  it  still  consists  the  wealth 
of  a vast  extent  of  Lombardy.  At  the  same  time  the  town 
of  Milan  rebuilt  its  walls,  which  were  three  miles  round, 
and  had  sixteen  marble  gates,  of  magnificence  which  might 
have  graced  the  capital  of  all  Italy.  The  Genovese,  in  1276 
and  1283,  built  their  two  splendid  docks,  and  the  great 
wall  of  their  quay  ; and  in  1295  finished  the  noble  aque- 
duct which  brings  pure  and  abundant  waters  to  their  city 
from  a great  distance  among  then’  mountains.  There  is  not 
a single  town  in  Italy  which  at  the  same  time  did  not  under- 
take works  of  this  kind  ; and  while  these  larger  undertak- 
ings were  in  progress,  stone  bridges  were  built  across  the 


SHIELD  AND  APRON. 


273 


rivers,  the  streets  and  piazzas  were  paved  with  large  slabs 
of  stone,  and  every  free  government  recognized  the  duty  of 
providing  for  the  convenience  of  the  citizens.”  * 

78.  The  necessary  consequence  of  this  enthusiasm  in  use- 
ful building,  was  the  formation  of  a vast  body  of  craftsmen  and 
architects ; corresponding  in  importance  to  that  which  the 
railway,  with  its  associated  industry,  has  developed  in  modern 
times,  but  entirely  different  in  personal  character,  and  rela- 
tion to  the  body  politic. 

Their  personal  character  was  founded  on  the  accurate 
knowledge  of  their  business  in  all  respects  ; the  ease  and  pleas- 
ure of  unaffected  invention  ; and  the  true  sense  of  power  to 
do  everything  better  than  it  had  ever  been  yet  done,  coupled 
with  general  contentment  in  life,  and  in  its  vigour  and  skill. 

It  is  impossible  to  overrate  the  difference  between  such  a 
condition  of  mind,  and  that  of  the  modern  artist,  who  either 
does  not  know  his  business  at  all,  or  knows  it  only  to  recog- 
nize his  own  inferiority  to  every  former  workman  of  distinc- 
tion. 

79.  Again  : the  political  relation  of  these  artificers  to  the 
State  was  that  of  a caste  entirely  separate  from  the  noblesse  ; j* 
paid  for  their  daily  work  what  was  just,  and  competing  with 
each  other  to  supply  the  best  article  they  could  for  the  money. 
And  it  is,  again,  impossible  to  overrate  the  difference  be- 
tween such  a social  condition,  and  that  of  the  artists  of  to-day, 
struggling  to  occupy  a position  of  equality  in  wealth  with  the 
noblesse, — paid  irregular  and  monstrous  prices  by  an  entirely 
ignorant  and  selfish  public  ; and  competing  with  each  other  to 
supply  the  worst  article  they  can  for  the  money. 

I never  saw  anything  so  impudent  on  the  walls  of  any  ex- 
hibition, in  any  country,  as  last  year  in  London.  It  was  a 
daub  professing  to  be  a “ harmony  in  pink  and  white  ” (or 
some  such  nonsense  ;)  absolute  rubbish,  and  which  had  taken 
about  a quarter  of  an  hour  to  scrawl  or  daub — it  had  no  pre- 

* Simondi,  vol.  ii.  chap.  10. 

f The  giving  of  knighthood  to  Jacopo  della  Quereia  for  his  lifelong 
service  to  Siena,  was  not  the  elevation  of  a dexterous  workman,  but 
grace  to  a faithful  citizen. 


274 


VAL  D 'ARNO. 


tence  to  be  called  painting.  The  price  asked  for  it  was  two 
hundred  and  fifty  guineas. 

80.  In  order  to  complete  your  broad  view  of  the  elements  of 
social  power  in  the  thirteenth  century,  you  have  now  farther 
to  understand  the  position  of  the  country  people,  who  main- 
tained by  their  labour  these  three  classes,  whose  action  you 
can  discern,  and  whose  history  you  can  read  ; while,  of  those 
who  maintained  them,  there  is  no  history,  except  of  the  an- 
nual ravage  of  their  fields  by  contending  cities  or  nobles  ; — and, 
finally,  that  of  the  higher  body  of  merchants,  -whose  influ- 
ence was  already  beginning  to  counterpoise  the  prestige  of 
noblesse  in  Florence,  and  who  themselves  constituted  no 
small  portion  of  the  noblesse  of  Venice. 

The  food-producing  country  was  for  the  most  part  still 
possessed  by  the  nobles  ; some  b}r  the  ecclesiastics  ; but  a 
portion,  I do  not  know  how  large,  was  in  the  hands  of  peas- 
ant proprietors,  of  whom  Sismondi  gives  this,  to  my  mind, 
completely  pleasant  and  satisfactory,  though,  to  his,  very  pain- 
ful, account  : — 

“They  took  no  interest  in  public  affairs  ; they  had  assem- 
blies of  their  commune  at  the  village  in  which  the  church  of 
their  parish  was  situated,  and  to  which  they  retreated  to  de- 
fend themselves  in  case  of  war  ; they  had  also  magistrates  of 
their  own  choice  ; but  all  their  interests  appeared  to  them  en- 
closed in  the  circle  of  their  own  commonality  ; they  did  not 
meddle  with  general  politics,  and  held  it  for  their  point  of 
honour  to  remain  faithful,  through  all  revolutions,  to  the 
State  of  which  they  formed  a part,  obeying,  without  hesita- 
tion, its  chiefs,  whoever  they  were,  and  by  whatever  title  they 
occupied  their  places.” 

81.  Of  the  inferior  agricultural  labourers,  employed  on  the 
farms  of  the  nobles  and  richer  ecclesiastics,  I find  nowhere 
due  notice,  nor  does  any  historian  seriously  examine  their 
manner  of  life.  Liable  to  every  form  of  robbery  and  oppres- 
sion, I yet  regard  their  state  as  not  only  morally  but  physi- 
cally happier  than  that  of  riotous  soldiery,  or  the  lower  class 
of  artizans,  and  as  the  safeguard  of  every  civilized  nation, 
through  all  its  worst  vicissitudes  of  folly  and  crime.  Nature 


SHIELD  AND  APRON 


275 


has  mercifully  appointed  that  seed  must  be  sown,  and  sheep 
folded,  whatever  lances  break,  or  religions  fail ; and  at  this 
hour,  while  the  streets  of  Florence  and  Verona  are  full  of 
idle  politicians,  loud  of  tongue,  useless  of  hand  and  treacher- 
ous of  heart,  there  still  may  be  seen  in  their  market-places, 
standing,  each  by  his  heap  of  pulse  or  maize,  the  grey-haired 
labourers,  silent,  serviceable,  honourable,  keeping  faith,  un- 
touched by  change,  to  their  country  and  to  Heaven.* 

82.  It  is  extremely  difficult  to  determine  in  what  degree 
the  feelings  or  intelligence  of  this  class  influenced  the  archi- 
tectural design  of  the  thirteenth  century  ; — how  far  afield  the 
cathedral  tower  was  intended  to  give  delight,  and  to  what 
simplicity  of  rustic  conception  Quercia  or  Ghiberti  appealed 
by  the  fascination  of  their  Scripture  history.  You  may  at 
least  conceive,  at  this  date,  a healthy  animation  in  all  men’s 
minds,  and  the  children  of  the  vineyard  and  sheepcote  crowd- 
ing the  city  on  its  festa  days,  and  receiving  impulse  to  busier, 
if  not  nobler,  education,  in  its  splendour. f 

83.  The  great  class  of  the  merchants  is  more  difficult  to 
define  ; but  you  may  regard  them  generally  as  the  examples 
of  whatever  modes  of  life  might  be  consistent  with  peace  and 
justice,  in  the  economy  of  transfer,  as  opposed  to  the  military 
license  of  pillage. 

They  represent  the  gradual  ascendancy  of  foresight,  pru- 
dence, and  order  in  society,  and  the  first  ideas  of  advantageous 
national  intercourse.  Their  body  is  therefore  composed  of 
the  most  intelligent  and  temperate  natures  of  the  time, — 
uniting  themselves,  not  directly  for  the  purpose  of  making 
money,  but  to  obtain  stability  for  equal  institutions,  security 
of  property,  and  pacific  relations  with  neighbouring  states. 
Their  guilds  form  the  only  representatives  of  true  national 
council,  unaffected,  as  the  landed  proprietors  were,  by  merely 
local  circumstances  and  accidents. 

84.  The  strength  of  this  order,  when  its  own  conduct  was 

* Compare  “ Sesame  and  Lilies,”  sec.  38,  p.  58.  (P.  86  of  the  small 
edition  of  1882.) 

f Of  detached  abbeys,  see  note  on  Education  of  Joan  of  Arc,  “ Se- 
same and  Lilies,”  sec.  82,  p.  106.  (P.  158  of  the  small  edition  of  1882.) 


276 


VAL  D 'ARNO. 


upright,  and  its  opposition  to  the  military  body  was  not  in 
avaricious  cowardice,  but  in  the  resolve  to  compel  justice  and 
to  secure  peace,  can  only  be  understood  by  you  after  an  exam- 
ination of  the  great  changes  in  the  government  of  Florence 
during  the  thirteenth  century,  which,  among  other  minor 
achievements  interesting  to  us,  led  to  that  destruction  of  the 
Tower  of  the  Death-watch,  so  ingeniously  accomplished  by 
Niccola  Pisano.  This  change,  and  its  results,  will  be  the 
subject  of  my  next  lecture.  I must  to-day  sum,  and  in  some 
farther  degree  make  clear,  the  facts  already  laid  before  you. 

85.  We  have  seen  that  the  inhabitants  of  every  great  Italian 
state  may  be  divided,  and  that  very  stringently,  into  the  five 
classes  of  knights,  priests,  merchants,  artists,  and  peasants. 
No  distinction  exists  between  artist  and  artizan,  except  that 
of  higher  genius  or  better  conduct ; the  best  artist  is  assur- 
edly also  the  best  artizan ; and  the  simplest  workman  uses 
his  invention  and  emotion  as  well  as  his  fingers.  The  entire 
body  of  artists  is  under  the  orders  (as  shopmen  are  under  the 
orders  of  their  customers),  of  the  knights,  priests,  and  mer- 
chants,— the  knights  for  the  most  part  demanding  only  fine 
goldsmiths’  work,  stout  armour,  and  rude  architecture  ; the 
priests  commanding  both  the  finest  architecture  and  painting, 
and  the  richest  kinds  of  decorative  dress  and  jewellery, — 
while  the  merchants  directed  works  of  public  use,  and  were 
the  best  judges  of  artistic  skill.  The  competition  for  the 
Baptistery  gates  of  Florence  is  before  the  guild  of  merchants ; 
nor  is  their  award  disputed,  even  in  thought,  by  any  of  the 
candidates. 

86.  This  is  surely  a fact  to  be  taken  much  to  heart  by  our 
present  communities  of  Liverpool  and  Manchester.  They 
probably  suppose,  in  their  modesty,  that  lords  and  clergymen 
are  the  proper  judges  of  art,  and  merchants  can  only,  in  the 
modem  phrase,  ‘know  what  they  like,’  or  follow  humbly  the 
guidance  of  their  golden-crested  or  flat-capped  superiors. 
But  in  the  great  ages  of  art,  neither  knight  nor  pope  shows 
signs  of  true  power  of  criticism.  The  artists  crouch  before 
them,  or  quarrel  with  them,  according  to  their  own  tempers. 
To  the  merchants  they  submit  silently,  as  to  just  and  capable 


SHIELD  AND  APRON. 


277 


judges.  And  look  what  men  these  are,  who  submit.  Dona- 
tello, Ghiberti,  Quercia,  Luca ! If  men  like  these  submit  to 
the  merchant,  who  shall  rebel  ? 

87.  But  the  still  franker,  and  surer,  judgment  of  innocent 
pleasure  was  awarded  them  by  all  classes  alike  : and  the  inter- 
est of  the  public  was  the  final  rule  of  right, — that  public  being 
always  eager  to  see,  and  earnest  to  learn.  For  the  stories 
told  by  their  artists  formed,  they  fully  believed,  a Book  of 
Life  ; and  every  man  of  real  genius  took  up  his  function  of 
illustrating  the  scheme  of  human  morality  and  salvation,  as 
naturally,  and  faithfully,  as  an  English  mother  of  to-day  giv- 
ing her  children  their  first  lessons  in  the  Bible.  In  this 
endeavour  to  teach  they  almost  unawares  taught  themselves  ; 
the  question  “How  shall  I represent  this  most  clearly?”  be- 
came to  themselves,  presently,  “How  wras  this  most  likely  to 
have  happened  ? ” and  habits  of  fresh  and  accurate  thought 
thus  quickly  enlivened  the  formalities  of  the  Greek  pictorial 
theology  ; formalities  themselves  beneficent,  because  restrain- 
ing by  their  severity  and  mystery  the  wantonness  of  the  newer 
life.  Foolish  modern  critics  have  seen  nothing  in  the  Byzan- 
tine school  but  a barbarism  to  be  conquered  and  forgotten. 
But  that  school  brought  to  the  art-scholars  of  the  thirteenth 
century,  laws  which  had  been  serviceable  to  Phidias,  and 
symbols  which  had  been  beautiful  to  Homer : and  methods 
and  habits  of  pictorial  scholarship  wdiich  gave  a refinement  of 
manner  to  the  work  of  the  simplest  craftsman,  and  became 
an  education  to  the  higher  artists  which  no  discipline  of  liter- 
ature can  now  bestow,  developed  themselves  in  the  effort  to 
decipher,  and  the  impulse  to  re-interpret,  the  Eleusinian 
divinity  of  Byzantine  tradition. 

88.  The  words  I have  just  used,  “ pictorial  scholarship,”  and 
“ pictorial  theology,”  remind  me  how  strange  it  must  appear 
to  you  that  in  this  sketch  of  the  intellectual  state  of  Italy  in 
the  thirteenth  century  I have  taken  no  note  of  literature  itself, 
nor  of  the  fine  art  of  Music  with  which  it  was  associated  in 
minstrelsy.  The  corruption  of  the  meaning  of  the  w7ord 
“ clerk,”  from  “ a chosen  person  ” to  “ a learned  one,”  partly 
indicates  the  position  of  literature  in  the  war  between  the 


278 


VAL  D 'ARNO. 


golden  crest  and  scarlet  cap  ; but  in  tbe  higher  rants,  liter* 
ature  and  music  became  the  grace  of  the  noble’s  life,  or  the 
occupation  of  the  monk’s,  without  forming  any  separate  class, 
or  exercising  any  materially  visible  political  power.  Masons 
or  butchers  might  establish  a government, — but  never  trouba- 
dours : and  though  a good  knight  held  his  education  to  be  im- 
perfect unless  he  could  write  a sonnet  and  sing  it,  he  did  not 
esteem  his  castle  to  be  at  the  mercy  of  the  “ editor  ” of  a 
manuscript.  He  might  indeed  owe  his  life  to  the  fidelity  of 
a minstrel,  or  be  guided  in  his  policy  by  the  wit  of  a clown  ; 
but  he  was  not  the  slave  of  sensual  music,  or  vulgar  literature, 
and  never  allowed  his  Saturday  reviewer  to  appear  at  table 
without  the  cock’s  comb. 

89.  On  the  other  hand,  what  was  noblest  in  thought  or  say- 
ing was  in  those  times  as  little  attended  to  as  it  is  now.  I do 
not  feel  sure  that,  even  in  after  times,  the  poem  of  Dante  has 
had  any  political  effect  on  Italy ; but  at  all  events,  in  his  life, 
even  at  Verona,  where  he  was  treated  most  kindly,  he  had  not 
half  so  much  influence  with  Can  Grande  as  the  rough  Count 
of  Castelbarco,  not  one  of  whose  words  was  ever  written,  or 
now  remains  ; and  whose  portrait,  by  no  means  that  of  a man 
of  literary  genius,  almost  disfigures,  by  its  plainness,  the 
otherwise  grave  and  perfect  beauty  of  his  tomb. 


LECTURE  IV. 

PAETED  PER  PALE. 

90.  The  chart  of  Italian  intellect  and  policy  which  I have 
endeavoured  to  put  into  form  in  the  last  three  lectures,  may, 
I hope,  have  given  you  a clear  idea  of  the  subordinate,  yet 
partly  antagonistic,  position  which  the  artist,  or  merchant, — 
whom  in  my  present  lecture  I shall  class  together, — occupied, 
with  respect  to  the  noble  and  priest.  As  an  honest  labourer, 
he  was  opposed  to  the  violence  of  pillage,  and  to  the  folly  of 
pride  : as  an  honest  thinker,  he  was  likely  to  discover  any 
latent  absurdity  in  the  stories  he  had  to  represent  in  their 


PARTED  PER  PALE. 


279 


nearest  likelihood  ; and  to  be  himself  moved  strongly  by  the 
true  meaning  of  events  which  he  was  striving  to  make  ocularly 
manifest.  The  painter  terrified  himself  with  his  own  fiends, 
and  reproved  or  comforted  himself  by  the  lips  of  his  own 
saints,  far  more  profoundly  than  any  verbal  preacher  ; and 
thus,  whether  as  craftsman  or  inventor,  was  likely  to  be  fore- 
most in  defending  the  laws  of  his  city,  or  directing  its  refor- 
mation. 

91.  The  contest  of  the  craftsman  with  the  pillaging  soldier 
is  typically  represented  by  the  war  of  the  Lombard  League 
with  Frederick  II.  ; and  that  of  the  craftsman  with  the  hypo- 
critical priest,  by  the  war  of  the  Pisans  with  Gregory  IX. 
(1241).  But  in  the  present  lecture  I wish  only  to  fix  your  at- 
tention on  the  revolutions  in  Florence,  which  indicated,  thus 
early,  the  already  established  ascendancy  of  the  moral  forces 
which  were  to  put  an  end  to  open  robber-soldiership  ; and  at 
least  to  compel  the  assertion  of  some  higher  principle  in  war, 
if  not,  as  in  some  distant  day  may  be  possible,  the  cessation 
of  war  itself. 

The  most  important  of  these  revolutions  was  virtually  that 
of  which  I before  spoke  to  you,  taking  place  in  mid-thirteenth 
century,  in  the  year  1250, — a very  memorable  one  for  Chris- 
tendom, and  the  very  crisis  of  vital  change  in  its  methods  of 
economy,  and  conceptions  of  art. 

92.  Observe,  first,  the  exact  relations  at  that  time  of  Chris- 
tian and  Profane  Chivalry.  St.  Louis,  in  the  winter  of  1248-9. 
lay  in  the  isle  of  Cyprus,  with  his  crusading  army.  He  had 
trusted  to  Providence  for  provisions  ; and  his  army  was  starv- 
ing. The  profane  German  emperor,  Frederick  II.,  was  at  war 
with  Venice,  but  gave  a safe-conduct  to  the  Venetian  ships, 
which  enabled  them  to  carry  food  to  Cyprus,  and  to  save  St. 
Louis  and  his  crusaders.  Frederick  had  been  for  half  his  life 
excommunicate, — and  the  Pope  (Innocent  IV.)  at  deadly  spirit- 
ual and  temporal  war  with  him  ; — spiritually,  because  he  had 
brought  Saracens  into  Apulia ; temporally,  because  the  Pope 
wanted  Apulia  for  himself.  St.  Louis  and  his  mother  both 
wrote  to  Innocent,  praying  him  to  be  reconciled  to  the  kind 
heretic  who  had  saved  the  whole  crusading  army.  But  the 


280 


VAL  D 'ARNO. 


Pope  remained  implacably  thundrous ; and  Frederick,  wear? 
of  quarrel,  stayed  quiet  in  one  of  his  Apulian  castles  for  a 
year.  The  repose  of  infidelity  is  seldom  cheerful,  unless  it  be 
criminal.  Frederick  had  much  to  repent  of,  much  to  regret, 
nothing  to  hope,  and  nothing  to  do.  At  the  end  of  his  year’s 
quiet  he  was  attacked  by  dysentery,  and  so  made  his  final 
peace  with  the  Pope,  and  heaven, — aged  fifty-six. 

93.  Meantime  St.  Louis  had  gone  on  into  Egypt,  had  got 
his  army  defeated,  his  brother  killed,  and  himself  carried 
captive.  You  may  be  interested  in  seeing,  in  the  leaf  of  his 
psalter  which  I have  laid  on  the  table,  the  death  of  that 
brother  set  down  in  golden  letters,  between  the  common 
letters  of  ultramarine,  on  the  eighth  of  February. 

94.  Providence,  defied  by  Frederick,  and  trusted  in  by  St. 
Louis,  made  such  arrangements  for  them  both  ; Providence 
not  in  anywise  regarding  the  opinions  of  either  king,  but 
very  much  regarding  the  facts,  that  the  one  had  no  business 
in  Egypt,  nor  the  other  in  Apulia. 

No  two  kings,  in  the  history  of  the  world,  could  have  been 
happier,  or  more  useful,  than  these  two  might  have  been,  if 
they  only  had  had  the  sense  to  stay  in  their  own  capitals,  and 
attend  to  their  own  affairs.  But  they  seem  only  to  have  been 
born  to  show  what  grievous  results,  under  the  power  of  dis- 
contented imagination,  a Christian  could  achieve  by  faith,  and 
a philosopher  by  reason.* 

95.  The  death  of  Frederick  II.  virtually  ended  the  soldier 
power  in  Florence  ; and  the  mercantile  power  assumed  the 
authority  it  thenceforward  held,  until,  in  the  hands  of  the 
Medici,  it  destroyed  the  city. 

We  will  now  trace  the  course  and  effects  of  the  three  revolu- 
tions which  closed  the  reign  of  War,  and  crowned  the  power 
of  Peace. 

* It  must  not  be  thought  that  this  is  said  in  disregard  of  the  nobleness 
of  either  of  these  two  glorious  Kings.  Among  the  many  designs  of  past 
years,  one  of  my  favorites  was  to  write  a life  of  Frederick  II.  But  I 
hope  that  both  his,  and  that  of  Henry  II.  of  England,  will  soon  be 
written  now,  by  a man  who  loves  them  as  well  as  I do,  and  knows  them 
far  better. 


PARTED  PER  PALE. 


281 


96.  In  the  year  1248,  while  St.  Louis  was  in  Cyprus,  I told 
you  Frederick  was  at  war  with  Venice.  He  was  so  because 
she  stood,  if  not  as  the  leader,  at  least  as  the  most  important 
ally,  of  the  great  Lombard  mercantile  league  against  the 
German  military  power. 

That  league  consisted  essentially  of  Venice,  Milan,  Bologna* 
and  Genoa,  in  alliance  with  the  Pope  ; the  Imperial  or  Gliibel- 
line  towns  were,  Padua  and  Verona  under  Ezzelin ; Mantua, 
Pisa,  and  Siena.  I do  not  name  the  minor  towns  of  north 
Italy  which  associated  themselves  with  each  party  : get  only 
the  main  localities  of  the  contest  well  into  your  minds.  It  was 
all  concentrated  in  the  furious  hostility  of  Genoa  and  Pisa ; 
Genoa  fighting  really  very  piously  for  the  Pope,  as  well  as  for 
herself;  Pisa  for  her  own  hand,  and  for  the  Emperor  as 
much  as  suited  her.  The  mad  little  sea  falcon  never  caught 
sight  of  another  water-bird  on  the  wing,  but  she  must  hawk  at 
it ; and  as  an  ally  of  the  Emperor,  balanced  Venice  and 
Genoa  with  her  single  strength.  And  so  it  came  to  pass  that 
the  victory  of  either  the  Guelph  or  Ghibelline  party  depended 
on  the  final  action  of  Florence. 

97.  Florence  meanwhile  was  fighting  with  herself,  for  her 
own  amusement.  She  was  nominally  at  the  head  of  the 
Guelphic  League  in  Tuscany ; but  this  only  meant  that  she 
hated  Siena  and  Pisa,  her  southern  and  western  neighbours. 
She  had  never  declared  openly  against  the  Emperor.  On  the 
contrary,  she  always  recognized  his  authority,  in  an  imagina- 
tive manner,  as  representing  that  of  the  Csesars.  She  spent 
her  own  energy  chiefly  in  street-fighting, — the  death  of 
Buondelmonti  in  1215  having  been  the  root  of  a series  of 
quarrels  among  her  nobles  which  gradually  took  the  form  of 
contests  of  honour  ; and  were  a kind  of  accidental  tournaments, 
fought  to  the  death,  because  they  could  not  be  exciting  or 
dignified  enough  on  any  other  condition.  And  thus  the  man- 
ner of  life  came  to  be  customary,  which  you  have  accurately, 
with  its  consequences,  pictured  by  Shakspeare.  Samson  bites 
his  thumb  at  Abraham,  and  presently  the  streets  are  impas- 
sable in  battle.  The  quarrel  in  the  Canongate  between  the 
Leslies  and  Seytons,  in  Scott’s  ‘Abbot,’  represents  the  same 


282 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


temper ; and  marks  also,  what  Shakspeare  did  not  so  distinctly, 
because  it  would  have  interfered  with  the  domestic  character 
of  his  play,  the  connection  of  these  private  quarrels  with 
political  divisions  which  paralyzed  the  entire  body  of  the 
State. — Yet  these  political  schisms,  in  the  earlier  days  of  Italy, 
never  reached  the  bitterness  of  Scottish  feud,*  because  they 
were  never  so  sincere.  Protestant  and  Catholic  Scotsmen 
faithfully  believed  each  other  to  be  servants  of  the  devil ; but 
the  Guelph  and  Ghibelline  of  Florence  each  respected,  in 
the  other,  the  fidelity  to  the  Emperor,  or  piety  towards 
the  Pope,  which  he  found  it  convenient,  for  the  time, 
to  dispense  with  in  his  own  person.  The  street  fighting 
was  therefore  more  general,  more  chivalric,  more  good- 
humoured  ; a word  of  offence  set  all  the  noblesse  of  the  town 
on  fire  ; every  one  rallied  to  his  post ; fighting  began  at 
once  in  half  a dozen  places  of  recognized  convenience,  but 
ended  in  the  evening ; and,  on  the  following  day,  the  leaders 
determined  in  contended  truce  who  had  fought  best,  buried 
their  dead  triumphantly,  and  better  fortified  any  weak  points, 
which  the  events  of  the  previous  day  had  exposed  at  their 
palace  corners.  Florentine  dispute  was  apt  to  centre  itself 
about  the  gate  of  St.  Peter,  f the  tower  of  the  cathedral,  or 
the  fortress-palace  of  the  IJberti,  (the  family  of  Dante’s  Bel- 
lincion  Berti  and  of  Farinata),  which  occupied  the  site  of  the 
present  Palazzo  Vecchio.  But  the  streets  of  Siena  seem  to 
have  afforded  better  barricade  practice.  They  are  as  steep  as 
they  are  narrow — extremely  both  ; and  the  projecting  stones 
on  their  palace  fronts,  which  were  left,  in  building,  to  sustain, 
on  occasion,  the  barricade  beams  across  the  streets,  are  to  this 
day  important  features  in  their  architecture. 

98.  Such  being  the  general  state  of  matters  in  Florence,  in 
this  year  1248,  Frederick  writes  to  the  Uberti,  who  headed 
the  Ghibellines,  to  engage  them  in  serious  effort  to  bring  the 

* Distinguish  always  the  personal  from  the  religious  feud ; personal 
feud  is  more  treacherous  and  violent  in  Italy  than  in  Scotland ; but 
not  the  political  or  religious  feud,  unless  involved  with  vast  material 
interests. 

f Sismondi,  vol.  iL,  chap.  ii.  ; G.  Yillani,  vi.,  33. 


PARTED  PER  PALE. 


283 


city  distinctly  to  the  Imperial  side.  He  was  besieging  Parma  ; 
and  sent  his  natural  son,  Frederick,  king  of  Antioch,  with 
sixteen  hundred  German  knights,  to  give  the  Ghibellines 
assured  preponderance  in  the  next  quarrel. 

The  Uberti  took  arms  before  their  arrival ; rallied  all  their 
Ghibelline  friends  into  a united  body,  and  so  attacked  and 
carried  the  Guelph  barricades,  one  by  one,  till  their  antago- 
nists, driven  together  by  local  defeat,  stood  in  consistency  as 
complete  as  their  own,  by  the  gate  of  St.  Peter,  ‘Scherag- 
gio.’  Young  Frederick,  with  his  German  riders,  arrived  at 
this  crisis  ; the  Ghibellines  opening  the  gates  to  him  ; the 
Guelphs,  nevertheless,  fought  at  their  outmost  barricade  for 
four  days  more  ; but  at  last,  tired,  withdrew  from  the  city,  in 
a body,  on  the  night  of  Candlemas,  2nd  February,  1248  ; 
leaving  the  Ghibellines  and  their  German  friends  to  work  their 
pleasure, — who  immediately  set  themselves  to  throw  down  the 
Guelph  palaces,  and  destroyed  six-and- thirty  of  them,  towers 
and  all,  with  the  good  help  of  Niccola  Pisano, — for  this  is  the 
occasion  of  that  beautiful  piece  of  new  engineering  of  his. 

99.  It  is  the  first  interference  of  the  Germans  in  Floren- 
tine affairs  which  belongs  to  the  real  cycle  of  modern  history. 
Six  hundred  years  later,  a troop  of  German  riders  entered 
Florence  again,  to  restore  its  Grand  Duke  ; and  our  warm- 
hearted and  loving  English  poetess,  looking  on  from  Casa 
Guidi  windows,  gives  the  said  Germans  many  hard  words, 
and  thinks  her  darling  Florentines  entirely  innocent  in  the 
matter.  But  if  she  had  had  clear  eyes,  (yeux  de  lin  * the 
Romance  of  the  Rose  calls  them,)  she  would  have  seen  that 
white-coated  cavalry  with  its  heavy  guns  to  be  nothing  more 
than  the  rear-guard  of  young  Frederick  of  Antioch  ; and  that 
Florence’s  own  Ghibellines  had  opened  her  gates  to  them. 
Destiny  little  regards  cost  of  time  ; she  does  her  justice  at 
that  telescopic  distance  just  as  easily  and  accurately  as  close 
at  hand. 

100.  “ Frederick  of  Antioch.”  Note  the  titular  coincidence. 
The  disciples  were  called  Christians  first  in  Antioch  ; here  we 
have  our  lieutenant  of  Antichrist  also  named  from  that  town. 

* Lynx. 


284  VAL  D 'ARNO. 

The  anti-Christian  Germans  got  into  Florence  upon  Sunday 
morning  ; the  Guelphs  fought  on  till  Wednesday,  which  was 
Candlemas  ; — the  Tower  of  the  Death-watch  was  thrown 
down  next  day.  It  was  so  called  because  it  stood  on  the 
Piazza  of  St.  John  ; and  all  dying  people  in  Florence  called 
on  St.  John  for  help  ; and  looked,  if  it  might  be,  to  the  top  of 
this  highest  and  best-built  of  towers.  The  wicked  anti- 
Christian  Ghibellines,  Nicholas  of  Pisa  helping,  cut  the  side 
of  it  “ so  that  the  tower  might  fall  on  the  Baptistery.  But  as 
it  pleased  God,  for  better  reverencing  of  the  blessed  St.  John, 
the  tower,  which  was  a hundred  and  eighty  feet  high,  as  it  was 
coming  down,  plainly  appeared  to  eschew  the  holy  church, 
and  turned  aside,  and  fell  right  across  the  square  ; at  which 
all  the  Florentines  marvelled,  (pious  or  impious,)  and  the 
people  (anti-Ghib ellin e ) were  greatly  delighted.” 

101.  I have  no  doubt  that  this  story  is  apocryphal,  not  only 
in  its  attribution  of  these  religious  scruples  to  the  falling 
tower ; but  in  its  accusation  of  the  Ghibellines  as  having 
definitely  intended  the  destruction  of  the  Baptistery.  It  is 
only  modern  reformers  who  feel  the  absolute  need  of  enforc- 
ing their  religious  opinions  in  so  practical  a manner.  Such  a 
piece  of  sacrilege  would  have  been  revolting  to  Farinata  ; how 
much  more  to  the  group  of  Florentines  whose  temper  is  cen- 
trally represented  by  Dante’s,  to  all  of  whom  their  “ bel  San 
Giovanni  ” was  dear,  at  least  for  its  beauty,  if  not  for  its  sanc- 
tity. And  Niccola  himself  was  too  good  a workman  to  be- 
come the  instrument  of  the  destruction  of  so  noble  a work, — 
not  to  insist  on  the  extreme  probability  that  he  was  also  too 
good  an  engineer  to  have  had  his  purpose,  if  once  fixed, 
thwarted  by  any  tenderness  in  the  conscience  of  the  collaps- 
ing tower.  The  tradition  itself  probably  arose  after  the  rage 
of  the  exiled  Ghibellines  had  half  consented  to  the  destruction, 
on  political  grounds,  of  Florence  itself ; but  the  form  it  took 
is  of  extreme  historical  value,  indicating  thus  early  at  least 
the  suspected  existence  of  passions  like  those  of  the  Crom- 
wellian or  Garibaldian  soldiery  in  the  Florentine  noble  ; and 
the  distinct  character  of  the  Ghibelline  party  as  not  only  anti- 
Papal,  but  profane. 


PARTED  PER  PALE. 


285 


102.  Upon  the  castles, fend  the  persons  of  their  antagonists, 
however,  the  pride,  or  fear,  of  the  Ghibellines  had  little  mercy  ; 
and  in  their  day  of  triumph  they  provoked  against  themselves 
nearly  every  rational  as  well  as  religious  person  in  the  com- 
monwealth. They  despised  too  much  the  force  of  the  newly- 
risen  popular  power,  founded  on  economy,  sobriety,  and 
common  sense ; and,  alike  by  impertinence  and  pillage,  in- 
creased the  irritation  of  the  civil  body  ; until,  as  aforesaid,  on 
the  20th  October,  1250,  all  the  rich  burgesses  of  Florence 
took  arms  ; met  in  the  square  before  the  church  of  Santa 
Croce,  (“where,”  says  Sismondi,  “ the  republic  of  the  dead  is 
still  assembled  to-day,”)  thence  traversed  the  city  to  the  pal- 
ace of  the  Ghibelline  podesta ; forced  him  to  resign  ; named 
Uberto  of  Lucca  in  his  place,  under  the  title  of  Captain  of  the 
People ; divided  themselves  into  twenty  companies,  each,  in 
its  own  district  of  the  city,  having  its  captain*  and  standard  ; 
and  elected  a council  of  twelve  ancients,  constituting 
a seniory  or  signoria,  to  deliberate  on  and  direct  public 
affairs. 

103.  What  a perfectly  beautiful  republican  movement ! 
thinks  Sismondi,  seeing,  in  all  this,  nothing  but  the  energy  of 
a multitude ; and  entirely  ignoring  the  peculiar  capacity  of 
this  Florentine  mob, — capacity  of  two  virtues,  much  forgotten 
by  modern  republicanism, — order,  namely  ; and  obedience ; 
together  with  the  peculiar  instinct  of  this  Florentine  multi- 
tude, which  not  only  felt  itself  to  need  captains,  but  knew 
where  to  find  them. 

104.  Hubert  of  Lucca — How  came  they,  think  you,  to  choose 
him  out  of  a stranger  city,  and  that  a poorer  one  than  their 
own?  Was  there  no  Florentine  then,  of  all  this  rich  and 
eager  crowd,  who  was  fit  to  govern  Florence  ? 

I cannot  find  any  account  of  this  Hubert,  Bright  mind,  of 
Ducca  ; Villani  says  simply  of  him,  “ Fu  il  primo  capitano  di 
Firenze.” 

They  hung  a bell  for  him  in  the  Campanile  of  the  Lion, 
and  gave  him  the  flag  of  Florence  to  bear ; and  before  the 


* ‘Corporal,’  literally. 


286 


VAL  D 'ARNO. 


day  was  over,  that  20th  of  October,  he  had  given  every  one  of 
the  twenty  companies  their  flags  also.  And  the  bearings  of 
the  said  gonfalons  were  these.  I will  give  you  this  heraldry 
as  far  as  I can  make  it  out  from  Villani  ; it  will  be  very  useful 
to  us  afterwards  ; I leave  the  Italian  when  I cannot  translate 
it : — 


105.  A.  Sesto,  (sixth  part  of  the  city,)  of  the  other  side  of 
Arno. 


Gonfalon  1.  Gules  ; a ladder,  argent. 

2.  Argent ; a scourge,  sable. 

3.  Azure  ; (una  piazza  bianca  con 

nicchi  vermigli). 

4.  Gules  ; a dragon,  vert. 


B.  Sesto  of  St.  Peter  Scheraggio. 

1.  Azure  ; a chariot,  or. 

2.  Or  ; a bull,  sable. 

3.  Argent ; a lion  rampant,  sable. 

4 (A  lively  piece,  “pezza  gag- 

liarda  ” ) Barry  of  (how 
many?)  pieces,  argent  and 
sable. 

You  may  as  well  note  at  once  of  this  kind  of  bearing,  called 
‘ gagliarda  ’ by  Villani,  that  these  groups  of  piles,  pales,  bends, 
and  bars,  were  called  in  English  heraldry  ‘Restrial  bearings,’ 
“ in  respect  of  their  strength  and  solid  substance,  which  is 
able  to  abide  the  stresse  and  force  of  any  triall  they  shall  be 
put  unto.”  * And  also  that,  the  number  of  bars  being  uncer- 
tain, I assume  the  bearing  to  be  ‘ barry,’  that  is,  having  an 
even  number  of  bars ; had  it  been  odd,  as  of  seven  bars,  it 
should  have  been  blazoned,  argent ; three  bars,  sable ; or,  if 
so  divided,  sable,  three  bars  argent. 

This  lively  bearing  was  St.  Pulinari’s. 


Guillim,  sect,  ii.}  chap.  3, 


PARTED  PER  PALE. 


287 


C.  Sesto  of  Borgo. 

1.  Or ; a viper,  vert. 

2.  Argent ; a needle,  (?)  (agu- 

glia)  sable. 

3.  Yert  ; a horse  unbridled  ; 

draped,  argent,  a cross, 
gules. 

D.  Sesto  of  St.  Brancazio. 

1.  Vert ; a lion  rampant,  proper. 

2.  Argent ; a lion  rampant,  gules. 

3.  Azure;  a lion  rampant,  argent. 

E.  Sesto  of  the  Cathedral  gates. 

1.  Azure  ; a lion  (passant  ?)  or. 

2.  Or ; a dragon,  vert. 

3.  Argent  ; a lion  rampant, 

azure,  crowned,  or. 

F.  Sesto  of  St.  Peter’s  gates. 

1.  Or ; two  keys,  gules. 

2.  An  Italian  (or  more  definitely 

a Greek  and  Etruscan  bear- 
ing ; I do  not  know  how  to 
blazon  it;)  concentric  bands, 
argent  and  sable.  This  is 
one  of  the  remains  of  the 
Greek  expressions  of  storm  ; 
hail,  or  the  Trinacrian  limbs, 
being  put  on  the  giant’s 
shields  also.  It  is  connected 
besides  wtih  the  Cretan 
labyrinth,  and  the  circles  of 
the  Inferno. 

3.  Parted  per  fesse,  gules  and 

vai  (I  don’t  know  if  vai 
means  grey — not  a proper 
heraldic  colour — or  vaire). 


288 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


106.  Of  course  Hubert  of  Lucca  did  not  determine  these 
bearings,  but  took  them  as  he  found  them,  and  appointed 
them  for  standards  ; * he  did  the  same  for  all  the  country  par- 
ishes, and  ordered  them  to  come  into  the  city  at  need.  “And 
in  this  manner  the  old  people  of  Florence  ordered  itself  ; and 
for  more  strength  of  the  people,  they  ordered  and  began  to 
build  the  palace  which  is  behind  the  Badia, — that  is  to  say> 
the  one  which  is  of  dressed  stone,  with  the  tower  ; for  before 
there  was  no  palace  of  the  commune  in  Florence,  but  the  sign- 
ory  abode  sometimes  in  one  part  of  the  town,  sometimes  in 
another. 

107.  “ And  as  the  people  had  now  taken  state  and  signory 
on  themselves,  they  ordered,  for  greater  strength  of  the  peo- 
ple, that  all  the  towers  of  Florence — and  there  were  many  180 
feet  high  f — should  be  cut  down  to  75  feet,  and  no  more;  and 
so  it  was  done,  and  with  the  stones  of  them  they  walled  the 
city  on  the  other  side  Arno.” 

108.  That  last  sentence  is  a significant  one.  Here  is  the 
central  expression  of  the  true  burgess  or  townsman  temper, — 
resolute  maintenance  of  fortified  peace.  These  are  the  walls 
which  modern  republicanism  throws  down,  to  make  boulevards 
over  their  ruins. 

109.  Such  new  order  being  taken,  Florence  remained  quiet 
for — full  two  months.  On  the  13th  of  December,  in  the  same 
year,  died  the  Emperor  Frederick  H. ; news  of  his  death  did 
not  reach  Florence  till  the  7th  January,  1251.  It  had  chanced, 
according  to  Villani,  that  on  the  actual  day  of  his  death,  his 
Florentine  vice-regent,  Binieri  of  Montemerlo,  was  killed  by 
a piece  of  the  vaulting  % of  his  room  falling  on  him  as  he 
slept.  And  when  the  people  heard  of  the  Emperor’s  death, 
“ which  was  most  useful  and  needful  for  Holy  Church,  and 
for  our  commune,”  they  took  the  fall  of  the  roof  on  his  lieu- 
tenant as  an  omen  of  the  extinction  of  Imperial  authority,  and 
resolved  to  bring  home  all  their  Guelphic  exiles,  and  that  the 

* We  will  examine  afterwards  ttie  heraldry  of  the  trades,  chap,  xi., 
Villani. 

f 120  braccia. 

\ “Una  volta  ch’  era  sopra  la  camera. ** 


FARTED  PER  PALE. 


289 


Gliibellines  should  be  forced  to  make  peace  with  them.  Which 
was  done,  and  the  peace  really  lasted  for  full  six  months  • 
when,  a quarrel  chancing  with  Ghibelline  Pistoja,  the  Floren- 
tines, under  a Milanese  podesta,  fought  their  first  properly 
communal  and  commercial  battle,  with  great  slaughter  of  Pis- 
tojese.  Naturally  enough,  but  very  unwisely,  the  Florentine 
Gliibellines  declined  to  take  part  in  this  battle  ; wrhereupon 
the  people,  returning  flushed  with  victory,  drove  them  all  out, 
and  established  pure  Guelph  government  in  Florence,  chang- 
ing at  the  same  time  the  flag  of  the  city  from  gules,  a lily 
argent,  to  argent,  a lily  gules  ; but  the  most  ancient  bearing 
of  all,  simply  parted  per  pale,  argent  and  gules,  remained 
always  on  their  carroccio  of  battle, — “ Non  si  muto  mai.” 

110.  “ Non  si  muto  mai.”  Villani  did  not  know  how  true 
his  words  were.  That  old  shield  of  Florence,  parted  per  pale, 
argent  and  gules,  (or  our  own  Saxon  Oswald’s,  parted  per 
pale,  or  and  purpure,)  are  heraldry  changeless  in  sign  ; declar- 
ing the  necessary  balance,  in  ruling  men,  of  the  Rational  and 
Imaginative  powers  ; pure  Alp,  and  glowing  cloud. 

Church  and  State — Pope  and  Emperor — Clergy  and  Laity, 
— all  these  are  partial,  accidental — too  often,  criminal — oppo- 
sitions ; but  the  bodily  and  spiritual  elements,  seemingly 
adverse,  remain  in  everlasting  harmony, 

Not  less  the  new  bearing  of  the  shield,  the  red  fleur-de-lys, 
has  another  meaning.  It  is  red,  not  as  ecclesiastical,  but  as 
free.  Not  of  Guelph  against  Ghibelline,  but  of  Labourer 
against  Knight.  No  more  his  serf,  but  his  minister.  His  duty 
no  more  ‘servitium,’  but  ‘ministerium,’  ‘mestier.’  We  learn 
the  power  of  word  after  word,  as  of  sign  after  sign,  as  we  fol- 
low the  traces  of  this  nascent  art.  I have  sketched  for  you 
this  lily  from  the  base  of  the  tower  of  Giotto.  You  may  judge 
by  the  subjects  of  the  sculpture  beside  it  that  it  was  built  just 
in  this  fit  of  commercial  triumph  ; for  all  the  outer  bas-reliefs 
are  of  trades. 

111.  Draw  that  red  lily  then,  and  fix  it  in  your  minds  as 
the  sign  of  the  great  change  in  the  temper  of  Florence,  and 
in  her  laws,  in  mid-thirteenth  century  ; and  remember  also, 
when  you  go  to  Florence  and  see  that  mighty  tower  of  the 


290 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


Palazzo  Vecchio  (noble  still,  in  spite  of  the  calamitous  and 
accursed  restorations  which  have  smoothed  its  rugged  ouh 
line,  and  effaced  with  modern  vulgarisms  its  lovely  sculpture) 
— terminating  the  shadowy  perspectives  of  the  Uffizii,  or 
dominant  over  the  city  seen  from  Fesole  or  Bellosguardo, — 
that,  as  the  tower  of  Giotto  is  the  notablest  monument  in  the 
world  of  the  Religion  of  Europe,  so,  on  this  tower  of  the 
Palazzo  Vecchio,  first  shook  itself  to  the  winds  the  Lily  stan- 
dard of  her  liberal, — because  honest, — commerce. 


LECTURE  V. 

PAX  VOBISCUM. 

112.  My  last  lecture  ended  with  a sentence  which  I thought, 
myself,  rather  pretty,  and  quite  fit  for  a popular  newspaper, 
about  the  ‘ lily  standard  of  liberal  commerce.  ’ But  it  might 
occur,  and  I hope  did  occur,  to  some  of  you,  that  it  would 
have  been  more  appropriate  if  the  lily  had  changed  colour 
the  other  way,  from  red  to  white,  (instead  of  white  to  red,)  as 
a sign  of  a pacific  constitution  and  kindly  national  purpose. 

113.  I believe  otherwise,  however ; and  although  the  change 
itself  was  for  the  sake  of  change  merely,  you  may  see  in  it,  I 
think,  one  of  the  historical  coincidences  which  contain  true 
instruction  for  us. 

Quite  one  of  the  chiefest  art-mistakes  and  stupidities  of 
men  has  been  their  tendency  to  dress  soldiers  in  red  clothes, 
and  monks,  or  pacific  persons,  in  black,  white,  or  grey  ones. 
At  least  half  of  that  mental  bias  of  young  people,  which  sus- 
tains the  wickedness  of  war  among  us  at  this  day,  is  owing  to 
the  prettiness  of  uniforms.  Make  all  Hussars  black,  all 
Guards  black,  all  troops  of  the  line  black  ; dress  officers  and 
men,  alike,  as  you  would  public  executioners  ; and  the  num- 
ber of  candidates  for  commissions  will  be  greatly  diminished. 
Habitually,  on  the  contrary,  you  dress  these  destructive 
rustics  and  their  officers  in  scarlet  and  gold,  but  give  your 
productive  rustics  no  costume  of  honour  or  beauty  ; you  give 


PAX  VOBISCUM. 


291 


your  peaceful  student  a costume  which  he  tucks  up  to  his 
waist,  because  he  is  ashamed  of  it ; and  dress  your  pious 
rectors,  and  your  sisters  of  charity,  in  black,  as  if  it  were  their 
trade  instead  of  the  soldier’s  to  send  people  to  hell,  and  their 
own  destiny  to  arrive  there. 

114.  But  the  investiture  of  the  lily  of  Florence  with  scarlet 
is  a symbol, — unintentional,  observe,  but  not  the  less  notable, 
— of  the  recovery  of  human  sense  and  intelligence  in  this 
matter.  The  reign  of  war  was  past ; this  was  the  sign  of  it ; 
— the  red  glow,  not  now  of  the  Towers  of  Dis,  but  of  the 
Carita,  “che  appena  fora  dentro  al  fuoco  nota.”  And  a day 
is  coming,  be  assured,  when  the  kings  of  Europe  will  dress 
their  peaceful  troops  beautifully  ; will  clothe  their  peasant 
girls  “in  scarlet,  with  other  delights,”  and  “put  on  orna- 
ments of  gold  upon  their  apparel  ; ” when  the  crocus  and  the 
lily  will  not  be  the  only  living  things  dressed  daintily  in  our 
land,  and  the  glory  of  the  wisest  monarchs  be  indeed,  in  that 
their  people,  like  themselves,  shall  be,  at  least  in  some  dim 
likeness,  “arrayed  like  one  of  these.” 

115.  But  as  for  the  immediate  behaviour  of  Florence  her- 
self, with  her  new  standard,  its  colour  was  quite  sufficiently 
significant  in  that  old  symbolism,  when  the  first  restrial  bear- 
ing was  drawn  by  dying  fingers  dipped  in  blood.  The  Guelph- 
ic  revolution  had  put  her  into  definite  political  opposition 
with  her  nearest,  and  therefore, — according  to  the  custom 
and  Christianity  of  the  time, — her  hatefullest,  neighbours, — 
Pistoja,  Pisa,  Siena,  and  Volterra.  What  glory  might  not  be 
acquired,  what  kind  purposes  answered,  by  making  pacific 
mercantile  states  also  of  those  benighted  towns ! Besides, 
the  death  of  the  Emperor  had  thrown  his  party  everywhere 
into  discouragement  ; and  what  was  the  use  of  a flag  which 
flew  no  farther  than  over  the  new  palazzo  ? 

116.  Accordingly,  in  the  next  year,  the  pacific  Florentines 
began  by  ravaging  the  territory  of  Pistoja  ; then  attacked  the 
Pisans  at  Pontadera,  and  took  3000  prisoners  ; and  finished 
by  traversing,  and  eating  up  all  that  could  be  ate  in,  the 
country  of  Siena  ; besides  beating  the  Sienese  under  the 
castle  of  Montalcmo.  Returning  in  triumph  after  these  benev- 


292 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


olent  operations,  they  resolved  to  strike  a new  piece  of 
money  in  memory  of  them, — the  golden  Florin  ! 

117.  This  coir  tve  placed  in  your  room  of  study,  to  be 
the  first  of  the  s^nes  of  coins  which  I hope  to  arrange  for 
you,  not  chronologically,  but  for  the  various  interest,  whether 
as  regards  art  or  history,  which  they  should  possess  in  your 
general  studies.  “ The  Florin  of  Florence,”  (says  Sismondi), 
“through  all  the  monetary  revolutions  of  all  neighbouring 
countries,  and  while  the  bad  faith  of  governments  adulterated 
their  coin  from  one  end  of  Europe  to  the  other,  has  always 
remained  the  same  ; it  is,  to-day,”  (I  don’t  know  when, 
exactly,  he  wrote  this, — but  it  doesn’t  matter),  “ of  the  same 
weight,  and  bears  the  same  name  and  the  same  stamp,  which 
it  did  when  it  wTas  struck  in  1252.”  It  was  gold  of  the  purest 
title  (24  carats),  weighed  the  eighth  of  an  ounce,  and  carried, 
as  you  see,  on  one  side  the  image  of  St.  John  Baptist,  on  the 
other  the  Fleur-de-lys.  It  is  the  coin  which  Chaucer  takes 
for  the  best  representation  of  beautiful  money  in  the  Par- 
doner’s Tale  : this,  in  his  judgment,  is  the  fairest  mask  of 
Death.  Villani’s  relation  of  its  moral  and  commercial  effect 
at  Tunis  is  worth  translating,  being  in  the  substance  of  it,  I 
doubt  not,  true. 

118.  “And  these  new  florins  beginning  to  scatter  through 
the  world,  some  of  them  got  to  Tunis,  in  Barbary  ; and  the 
King  of  Tunis,  who  was  a worthy  and  wise  lord,  was  greatly 
pleased  with  them,  and  had  them  tested  ; and  finding  them 
of  fine  gold,  he  praised  them  much,  and  had  the  legend  on 
them  interpreted  to  him, — to  wit,  on  one  side  * St.  John  Bap- 
tist,’ on  the  other  ‘Florentia.’  So  seeing  they  were  pieces  of 
Christian  money,  he  sent  for  the  Pisan  merchants,  who  were 
free  of  his  port,  and  much  before  the  King  (and  also  th9 
Florentines  traded  in  Tunis  through  Pisan  agents), — [see 
these  hot  little  Pisans,  how  they  are  first  every where,] — and 
asked  of  them  what  city  it  was  among  the  Christians  which 
made  the  said  florins.  And  the  Pisans  answered  in  spite  and 
envy,  ‘ They  are  our  land  Arabs.’  The  King  answered  wisely, 
“ It  does  not  appear  to  me  Arab’s  money ; you  Pisans,  what 
golden  money  have  you  got  ? ” Then  they  were  confused, 


PAX  VOBISCUM. 


293 


and  knew  not  what  to  answer.  So  he  asked  if  there  was  any 
Florentine  among  them.  And  there  was  found  a merchant 
from  the  other-side-Arno,  by  name  Peter  Balducci,  discreet 
and  wise.  The  King  asked  him  of  the  state  and  being  of 
Florence,  of  which  the  Pisans  made  their  Arabs, — who  an- 
swered him  wisely,  showing  the  power  and  magnificence  of 
Florence;  and  how  Pisa,  in  comparison,  was  not,  either  in 
land  or  people,  the  half  of  Florence  ; and  that  they  had  no 
golden  money  ; and  that  the  gold  of  which  those  florins  had 
been  made  was  gained  by  the  Florentines  above  and  beyond 
them,  by  many  victories.  Wherefore  the  said  Pisans  were 
put  to  shame,  and  the  King,  both  by  reason  of  the  florin,  and 
for  the  words  of  our  wise  citizen,  made  the  Florentines  free, 
and  appointed  for  them  their  own  Fondaco,  and  church,  in 
Tunis,  and  gave  them  privileges  like  the  Pisans.  And  this 
we  know  for  a truth  from  the  same  Peter,  having  been  in 
company  with  him  at  the  office  of  the  Priors.” 

119.  I cannot  tell  you  what  the  value  of  the  piece  was  at 
this  time  : the  sentence  with  which  Sismondi  concludes  his 
account  of  it  'being  only  useful  as  an  example  of  the  total 
ignorance  of  the  laws  of  currency  in  which  many  even  of  the 
best  educated  persons  at  the  present  day  remain. 

“Its  value,”  he  says  always  the  same,  “answers  to  eleven 
francs  forty  centimes  of  France.” 

But  all  that  can  be  scientifically  said  of  any  piece  of  money 
is  that  it  contains  a given  weight  of  a given  metal.  Its  value 
in  other  coins,  other  metals,  or  other  general  produce,  varies 
not  only  from  day  to  day,  but  from  instant  to  instant. 

120.  With  this  coin  of  Florence  ought  in  justice  to  be 
ranked  the  Venetian  zecchin  ; * but  of  it  I can  only  thus  give 
you  account  in  another  place, — for  I must  at  once  go  on  now 
to  tell  you  the  first  use  I find  recorded,  as  being  made  by  the 
Florentines  of  their  new  money. 

They  pursued  in  the  years  1253  and  1254  their  energetic 
promulgation  of  peace.  They  ravaged  the  lands  of  Pistoja  so 

* In  connection  with  the  Pisans’  insulting  intention  by  their  term  of 
Arabs,  remember  that  the  Venetian  4 zecca,’  (mint)  came  from  the 
Arabic  ‘sehk,’  the  steel  die  used  in  coinage. 


294 


VAL  I)' Amo. 


often,  that  the  Pistojese  submitted  themselves,  on  condition 
of  receiving  back  their  Guelph  exiles,  and  admitting  a Flor- 
entine garrison  into  Pistoja.  Next  they  attacked  Monte 
Reggione,  the  March-fortress  of  the  Sienese  ; and  pressed  it 
so  vigorously  that  Siena  was  fain  to  make  peace  too,  on  con- 
dition of  ceasing  her  alliance  with  the  Ghibellines.  Next 
they  ravaged  the  territory  of  Volterra : the  townspeople,  con- 
fident in  the  strength  of  their  rock  fortress,  came  out  to  give 
battle  ; the  Florentines  beat  them  up  the  hill,  and  entered 
the  town  gates  with  the  fugitives. 

121.  And,  for  note  to  this  sentence,  in  my  long-since-read 
volume  of  Sismondi,  I find  a cross-fleury  at  the  bottom  of  the 
page,  with  the  date  1254  underneath  it ; meaning  that  I was 
to  remember  that  year  as  the  beginning  of  Christian  warfare. 
For  little  as  you  may  think  it,  and  grotesquely  opposed  as 
this  ravaging  of  their  neighbours’  territories  may  seem  to  their 
pacific  mission,  this  Florentine  army  is  fighting  in  absolute 
good  faith.  Partly  self-deceived,  indeed,  by  their  own  am- 
bition, and  by  their  fiery  natures,  rejoicing  in  the  excitement 
of  battle,  they  have  nevertheless,  in  this  their  “ year  of  vic- 
tories,”— so  they  ever  afterwards  called  it, — no  occult  or 
malignant  purpose.  At  least,  whatever  is  occult  or  malignant 
is  also  unconscious  ; not  now  in  cruel,  but  in  kindly  jealousy 
of  their  neighbours,  and  in  a true  desire  to  communicate  and 
extend  to  them  the  privileges  of  their  own  new  artizan  gov- 
ernment, the  Trades  of  Florence  have  taken  arms.  They  are 
justly  proud  of  themselves  ; rightly  assured  of  the  wisdom  of 
the  change  they  have  made  ; true  to  each  other  for  the  time, 
and  confident  in  the  future.  No  army  ever  fought  in  better 
cause,  or  with  more  united  heart.  And  accordingly  they  meet 
with  no  check,  and  commit  no  error  ; from  tower  to  tower  of 
the  field  fortresses, — from  gate  to  gate  of  the  great  cities, — 
they  march  in  one  continuous  and  daily  more  splendid  tri- 
umph, yet  in  gentle  and  perfect  discipline  ; and  now,  when 
they  have  entered  Volterra  with  her  fugitives,  after  stress  of 
battle,  not  a drop  of  blood  is  shed,  nor  a single  house  pillaged, 
nor  is  any  other  condition  of  peace  required  than  the  exile  of 
the  Ghibelline  nobles.  You  may  remember,  as  a symbol  of 


PAX  V0B1SCUM. 


295 


the  influence  of  Christianity  in  this  result,  that  the  Bishop  of 
Volterra,  with  his  clergy,  came  out  in  procession  to  meet  them 
as  they  began  to  run  * the  streets,  and  obtained  this  mercy  ; 
else  the  old  habits  of  pillage  would  have  prevailed. 

122.  And  from  Yolterra,  the  Florentine  army  entered  on 
the  territory  of  Pisa  ; and  now  with  so  high  prestige,  that  the 
Pisans  at  once  sent  ambassadors  to  them  with  keys  in  their 
hands,  in  token  of  submission.  And  the  Florentines  made 
peace  with  them,  on  condition  that  the  Pisans  should  let  the 
Florentine  merchandize  pass  in  and  out  without  tax  ; — should 
use  the  same  weights  as  Florence, — the  same  cloth  measure, 
— and  the  same  alloy  of  money. 

123.  You  see  that  Mr.  Adam  Smith  was  not  altogether  the 
originator  of  the  idea  of  free  trade  ; and  six  hundred  years 
have  passed  without  bringing  Europe  generally  to  the  degree 
of  mercantile  intelligence,  as  to  weights  and  currency,  which 
Florence  had  in  her  year  of  victories. 

The  Pisans  broke  this  peace  two  years  afterwards,  to  help 
the  Emperor  Manfred  ; whereupon  the  Florentines  attacked 
them  instantly  again  ; defeated  them  on  the  Serchio,  near 
Lucca  ; entered  the  Pisan  territory  by  the  Yal  di  Serchio  ; 
and  there,  cutting  down  a great  pine  tree,  struck  their  florins 
on  the  stump  of  it,  putting,  for  memory,  under  the  feet  of  the 
St.  John,  a trefoil  “ in  guise  of  a little  tree.”  And  note  here 
the  difference  between  artistic  and  mechanical  coinage.  The 
Florentines,  using  pure  gold,  and  thin,  can  strike  their  coin 
anywhere,  with  only  a wooden  anvil,  and  their  engraver  is 
ready  on  the  instant  to  make  such  change  in  the  stamp  as 
may  record  any  new  triumph.  Consider  the  vigour,  popu- 
larity, pleasantness  of  an  art  of  coinage  thus  ductile  to 
events,  and  easy  in  manipulution. 

124.  It  is  to  be  observed  also  that  a thin  gold  coinage  like 
that  of  the  English  angel,  and  these  Italian  zecchins,  is  both 
more  convenient  and  prettier  than  the  massive  gold  of  the 
Greeks,  often  so  small  that  it  drops  through  the  fingers,  and, 
if  of  any  size,  inconveniently  large  in  value. 

125.  It  was  in  the  following  year,  1255,  that  the  Florentines 

* Corsona  la  citta  senza  contesto  niuno.  ” — ViUani. 


296 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


made  the  noblest  use  of  their  newly  struck  florins,  so  far  as  I 
know,  ever  recorded  in  any  history  ; and  a Florentine  citizen 
made  as  noble  refusal  of  them.  You  will  find  the  two  stories 
in  Giovanni  Villani,  Book  6th,  chapters  61,  62.  One  or  two 
important  facts  are  added  by  Sismondi,  but  without  references. 
I take  his  statement  as  on  the  whole  trustworthy,  using  Yil- 
lani’s  authority  wherever  it  reaches  ; one  or  two  points  I have 
farther  to  explain  to  you  myself  as  I go  on. 

126.  The  first  tale  shows  very  curiously  the  mercenary  and 
independent  character  of  warfare,  as  it  now  was  carried  on  by 
the  great  chiefs,  whether  Guelph  or  Ghibelline.  The  Floren- 
tines wanted  to  send  a troop  of  five  hundred  horse  to  assist 
Orvieto,  a Guelph  town,  isolated  on  its  rock,  and  at  present 
harrassed  upon  it.  They  gave  command  of  this  troop  to  the 
Knight  Guido  Guerra  de’  Conti  Guidi,  and  he  and  his  riders 
set  out  for  Orvieto  by  the  Umbrian  road,  through  Arezzo, 
which  was  at  peace  with  Florence,  though  a Ghibelline  town. 
The  Guelph  party  within  the  town  asked  help  from  the  pass- 
ing Florentine  battalion  ; and  Guido  Guerra,  without  any 
authority  for  such  action,  used  the  troop  of  which  he  was  in 
command  in  their  favour,  and  drove  out  the  GhibeUines.  Sis- 
mondi does  not  notice  what  is  quite  one  of  the  main  points  in 
the  matter,  that  this  troop  of  horse  must  have  been  mainly 
composed  of  Count  Guido’s  own  retainers,  and  not  of  Floren- 
tine citizens,  who  would  not  have  cared  to  leave  their  business 
on  such  a far-off  quest  as  this  help  to  Orvieto.  However, 
Arezzo  is  thus  brought  over  to  the  Florentine  interest ; and 
any  other  Italian  state  would  have  been  sure,  while  it  dis- 
claimed the  Count’s  independent  action,  to  keep  the  advantage 
of  it.  Not  so  Florence.  She  is  entirely  resolved,  in  these 
years  of  victory,  to  do  justice  to  all  men  so  far  she  understands 
it ; and  in  this  case  it  will  give  her  some  trouble  to  do  it,  and 
worse, — cost  her  some  of  her  fine  new  florins.  For  her  counter- 
mandate is  quite  powerless  with  Guido  Guerra.  He  has  taken 
Arezzo  mainly  with  his  own  men,  and  means  to  stay  there, 
thinking  that  the  Florentines,  if  even  they  do  not  abet  him, 
will  take  no  practical  steps  against  him.  But  he  does  not  know 
this  newly  risen  clan  of  military  merchants,  who  quite  clearly 


PAX  VO  BISCUM. 


297 


understand  what  honesty  means,  and  will  put  themselves  out 
of  their  way  to  keep  their  faith.  Florence  calls  out  her  trades 
instantly,  and  with  gules,  a dragon  vert,  and  or,  a bull  sable, 
they  march,  themselves,  angrily  up  the  Yal  d’Arno,  replace  the 
adverse  Ghibellines  in  Arezzo,  and  send  Master  Guido  de’  Conti 
Guido  about  his  business.  But  the  prettiest  and  most  curious 
part  of  the  whole  story  is  their  equity  even  to  him,  after  he 
had  given  them  all  this  trouble.  They  entirely  recognize  the 
need  he  is  under  of  getting  meat,  somehow,  for  the  mouths  of 
these  five  hundred  riders  of  his  ; also  they  hold  him  still  their 
friend,  though  an  unmanageable  one  ; and  admit  with  praise 
what  of  more  or  less  patriotic  and  Guelpliic  principle  may  be 
at  the  root  of  his  disobedience.  So  when  he  claims  twelve 
thousand  lire, — roughly,  some  two  thousand  pounds  of  money 
at  present  value, — from  the  Guelphs  of  Arezzo  for  his  service, 
and  the  Guelphs,  having  got  no  good  of  it,  owing  to  this  Flor- 
entine interference,  object  to  paying  him,  the  Florentines 
themselves  lend  them  the  money, — and  are  never  paid  a far- 
thing of  it  back. 

127.  There  is  a beautiful  “investment  of  capital  ” for  your 
modern  merchant  to  study  ! No  interest  thought  of,  and  little 
hope  of  ever  getting  back  the  principal.  And  yet  you  will 
find  that  there  were  no  mercantile  “panics,”  in  Florence  in 
those  days,  nor  failing  bankers,*  nor  “ clearings  out  of  this 
establishment — any  reasonable  offer  accepted.” 

128.  But  the  second  story,  of  a private  Florentine  citizen, 
is  better  still. 

In  that  campaign  against  Pisa  in  which  the  florins  were 
struck  on  the  root  of  pine,  the  conditions  of  peace  had  been 
ratified  by  the  surrender  to  Florence  of  the  Pisan  fortress  of 
Mutrona,  which  commanded  a tract  of  seaboard  below  Pisa, 
of  great  importance  for  the  Tuscan  trade.  The  Florentines 
had  stipulated  for  the  right  not  only  of  holding,  but  of  de- 
stroying it,  if  they  chose  ; and  in  their  Council  of  Ancients, 
after  long  debate,  it  was  determined  to  raze  it,  the  cost  of  its 

* Some  account  of  the  state  of  modern  British  business  in  this  kind 
will  be  given,  I hope,  in  some  number  of  “Fors  Clavigera ’’ for  this 
year,  1874. 


298 


VAL  D 'ARNO. 


garrison  being  troublesome,  and  the  freedom  of  seaboard  all 
that  the  city  wanted.  But  the  Pisans  feeling  the  power  that 
the  fortress  had  against  them  in  case  of  future  war,  and  doubt- 
ful of  the  issue  of  council  at  Florence,  sent  a private  negotia- 
tor to  the  member  of  the  Council  of  Ancients  who  was  known 
to  have  most  influence,  though  one  of  the  poorest  of  them, 
Aldobrandino  Ottobuoni ; and  offered  him  four  thousand 
golden  florins  if  he  would  get  the  vote  passed  to  raze  Mutrona. 
The  vote  had  passed  the  evening  before.  Aldobrandino  dis- 
missed the  Pisan  ambassador  in  silence,  returned  instantly  into 
the  council,  and  without  saying  anything  of  the  offer  that  had 
been  made  to  him,  got  them  to  reconsider  their  vote,  and 
showed  them  such  reason  for  keeping  Mutrona  in  its  strength, 
that  the  vote  for  its  destruction  wras  rescinded.  “And  note 
thou,  oh  reader,”  says  Villani,  “the  virtue  of  such  a citizen, 
who,  not  being  rich  in  substance,  had  yet  such  continence  and 
loyalty  for  his  state.” 

129.  You  might,  perhaps,  once,  have  thought  me  detaining 
you  needlessly  with  these  historical  details,  little  bearing,  it 
is  commonly  supposed,  on  the  subject  of  art.  But  you  are,  I 
trust,  now  in  some  degree  persuaded  that  no  art,  Florentine 
or  any  other,  can  be  understood  without  knowing  these 
sculptures  and  mouldings  of  the  national  soul.  You  remem- 
ber I first  begun  this  large  digression  when  it  became  a ques- 
tion writh  us  why  some  of  Giovanni  Pisano’s  sepulchral  work  had 
been  destroyed  at  Perugia.  And  now  we  shall  get  our  first 
gleam  of  light  on  the  matter,  finding  similar  operations  car- 
ried on  in  Florence.  For  a little  while  after  this  speech  in 
the  Council  of  Ancients,  Aldobrandino  died,  and  the  people, 
at  public  cost,  built  him  a tomb  of  marble,  “ higher  than  any 
other  ” in  the  church  of  Santa  Beparata,  engraving  on  it  these 
verses,  which  I leave  you  to  construe,  for  I cannot : — 

Fons  est  supremus  Aldobrandino  amoenus. 

Ottoboni  natus,  a bono  civita  datus. 

Only  I suppose  the  pretty  word  ‘ amoenus  ’ may  be  taken  as 
marking  the  delightfulness  and  sweetness  of  character  which 
had  won  all  men’s  love,  more,  even,  than  their  gratitude. 


PAX  VOBISGUM. 


299 


130.  It  failed  of  its  effect,  however,  on  the  Tuscan  aristo- 
cratic mind.  For,  when,  after  the  battle  of  the  Arbia,  the 
Ghibellines  had  again  their  own  way  in  Florence,  though 
Ottobuoni  had  been  then  dead  three  years,  they  beat  down 
his  tomb,  pulled  the  dead  body  out  of  it,  dragged  it — by  such 
tenure  as  it  might  still  possess — through  the  city,  and  threw 
the  fragments  of  it  into  ditches.  It  is  a memorable  parallel 
to  the  treatment  of  the  body  of  Cromwell  by  our  own  Cava- 
liers ; and  indeed  it  seems  to  me  one  of  the  highest  forms 
of  laudatory  epitaph  upon  a man,  that  his  body  should  be 
thus  torn  from  its  rest.  For  he  can  hardly  have  spent  his  life 
better  than  in  drawing  on  himself  the  kind  of  enmity  which 
can  so  be  gratified ; and  for  the  most  loving  of  lawgivers, 
as  of  princes,  the  most  enviable  and  honourable  epitaph  has 
always  been 

44  oiSe  TroXirai  avrov  i/xtcrovv  avrov.” 

131.  Not  but  that  pacific  Florence,  in  her  pride  of  victory, 
was  beginning  to  show  unamiableness  of  temper  also,  on  her 
so  equitable  side.  It  is  perhaps  worth  noticing,  for  the  sake 
of  the  name  of  Correggio,  that  in  1257,  when  Matthew  Cor- 
reggio, of  Parma,  was  the  Podesta  of  Florence,  the  Floren- 
tines determined  to  destroy  the  castle  and  walls  of  Poggi- 
bonzi,  suspected  of  Ghibelline  tendency,  though  the  Poggi- 
bonzi  people  came  with  “ coregge  in  collo,”  leathern  straps 
round  their  necks,  to  ask  that  their  cattle  might  be  spared. 
And  the  heartburnings  between  the  two  parties  went  on, 
smouldering  hotter  and  hotter,  till  July,  1258,  when  the 
people  having  discovered  secret  dealings  between  the  Uberti 
and  the  Emperor  Manfred,  and  the  Uberti  refusing  to  obey 
citation  to  the  popular  tribunals,  the  trades  ran  to  arms,  at- 
tacked the  Uberti  palace,  killed  a number  of  their  people,  took 
prisoner,  Uberto  of  the  Uberti,  Hubert  of  the  Huberts,  or 
Bright-mind  of  the  Bright-minds,  with  4 Mangia  degl’  Infan- 
gati,  ( 4 Gobbler  * of  the  dirty  ones  * this  knight’s  name 

* At  least,  the  compound  4 Mangia-pane,’  4 munch-bread,’  stands  still 
for  a good-for-nothing  fellow. 


300 


VAL  B'ARNO. 


sounds  like,) — and  after  they  had  confessed  their  guilt,  be- 
headed them  in  St.  Michael’s  corn-market ; and  all  the  rest  of 
the  Uberti  and  Ghibelline  families  were  driven  out  of  Florence, 
and  their  palaces  pulled  down,  and  the  walls  towards  Siena 
built  with  the  stones  of  them  ; and  two  months  afterwards, 
the  people  suspecting  the  Abbot  of  Yallombrosa  of  treating 
with  the  Ghibellines,  took  him,  and  tortured  him ; and  he 
confessing  under  torture,  “ at  the  cry  of  the  people,  they  be- 
headed him  in  the  square  of  St.  Apollinare.”  For  which  un- 
expected piece  of  clangorous  impiety  the  Florentines  were  ex- 
communicated, besides  drawing  upon  themselves  the  steady 
enmity  of  Pavia,  the  Abbot’s  native  town;  “and  indeed 
people  say  the  Abbot  was  innocent,  though  he  belonged  to  a 
great  Ghibelline  house.  And  for  this  sin,  and  for  many 
others  done  by  the  wicked  people,  many  wise  persons  say 
that  God,  for  Divine  judgment,  permitted  upon  the  said 
people  the  revenge  and  slaughter  of  Monteaperti.” 

132.  The  sentence  which  I have  last  read  introduces,  as  you 
must  at  once  have  felt,  a new  condition  of  things.  Generally, 
I have  spoken  of  the  Ghibellines  as  infidel,  or  impious ; and 
for  the  most  part  they  represent,  indeed,  the  resistance  of 
kingly  to  priestly  power.  But,  in  this  action  of  Florence,  we 
have  the  rise  of  another  force  against  the  Church,  in  the  end 
to  be  much  more  fatal  to  it,  that  of  popular  intelligence  and 
popular  passion.  I must  for  the  present,  however,  return  to 
our  immediate  business  ; and  ask  you  to  take  note  of  the  effect, 
on  actually  existing  Florentine  architecture,  of  the  political 
movements  of  the  ten  years  we  have  been  studying. 

133.  In  the  revolution  of  Candlemas,  1248,  the  successful 
Ghibellines  throw  down  thirty-six  of  the  Guelph  palaces. 

And  in  the  revolution  of  July,  1258,  the  successful  Guelphs 
throw  down  all  the  Ghibelline  palaces. 

Meantime  the  trades,  as  against  the  Knights  Castellans,  have 
thrown  down  the  tops  of  all  the  towers  above  seventy-five  feet 
high. 

And  we  shall  presently  have  a proposal,  after  the  battle  of 
the  Arbia,  to  throw  down  Florence  altogether. 

134  You  think  at  first  that  this  is  remarkably  like  the  course 


PAX  V0B1SGUM. 


301 


of  republican  reformations  in  the  present  clay  ? But  there  is 
a wide  difference.  In  the  first  place,  the  palaces  and  towers 
are  not  thrown  down  in  mere  spite  or  desire  of  ruin,  but  after 
quite  definite  experience  of  their  danger  to  the  State,  and 
positive  dejection  of  boiling  lead  and  wooden  logs  from  their 
machicolations  upon  the  heads  below.  In  the  second  place, 
nothing  is  thrown  down  without  complete  certainty  on  the 
part  of  the  overthrowers  that  they  are  able,  and  willing,  to 
build  as  good  or  better  things  instead  ; which,  if  any  like  con- 
viction exist  in  the  minds  of  modern  republicans,  is  a wofully 
ill-founded  one  : and  lastly,  these  abolitions  of  private  wealth 
were  coincident  with  a widely  spreading  disposition  to  under- 
take, as  I have  above  noticed,  works  of  public  utility,  from 
which  no  dividends  were  to  be  received  by  any  of  the  sharehold- 
ers ; and  for  the  execution  of  which  the  builders  received  no 
commission  on  the  cost,  but  payment  at  the  rate  of  so  much  a 
day,  carefully  adjusted  to  the  exertion  of  real  power  and  in- 
telligence. 

135.  We  must  not,  therefore,  without  qualification  blame, 
though  we  may  profoundly  regret,  the  destructive  passions  of 
the  thirteenth  century.  The  architecture  of  the  palaces  thus 
destroyed  in  Florence  contained  examples  of  the  most  beauti- 
ful round-arched  work  that  had  been  developed  by  the  Norman 
schools  ; and  was  in  some  cases  adorned  with  a barbaric  splen- 
dour, and  fitted  into  a majesty  of  strength  which,  so  far  as  I can 
conjecture  the  effect  of  it  from  the  few  now  existing  traces, 
must  have  presented  some  of  the  most  impressive  aspects  of 
street  edifice  ever  existent  among  civil  societies. 

136.  It  may  be  a temporary  relief  for  you  from  the  confu- 
sion of  following  the  giddy  successions  of  Florentine  temper, 
if  I interrupt,  in  this  place,  my  history  of  the  city  by  some  in- 
quiry into  technical  points  relating  to  the  architecture  of 
these  destroyed  palaces.  Their  style  is  familiar  to  us,  indeed, 
in  a building  of  which  it  is  difficult  to  believe  the  early  date, — 
the  leaning  tower  of  Pisa.  The  lower  stories  of  it  are  of  the 
twelfth  century,  and  the  open  arcades  of  the  cathedrals  of  Pisa 
and  Lucca,  as  well  as  the  lighter  construction  of  the  spire  of 
St.  Niccol,  at  Pisa,  (though  this  was  built  in  continuation  of 


302 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


the  older  style  by  Niccola  himself,)  all  represent  to  you,  though 
in  enriched  condition,  the  general  manner  of  building  in  pal- 
aces of  the  Norman  period  in  Val  d’Amo.  That  of  the  Tosin- 
ghi,  above  the  old  market  in  Florence,  is  especially  mentioned 
by  Villani,  as  more  than  a hundred  feet  in  height,  entirely 
built  with  little  pillars,  (colonnelli,)  of  marble.  On  their 
splendid  masonry  was  founded  the  exquisiteness  of  that  which 
immediately  succeeded  them,  of  which  the  date  is  fixed  by 
definite  examples  both  in  Verona  and  Florence,  and  which  still 
exists  in  noble  masses  in  the  retired  streets  and  courts  of 
either  city  ; too  soon  superseded,  in  the  great  thoroughfares, 
by  the  effeminate  and  monotonous  luxury  of  Venetian  renais- 
sance, or  by  the  heaps  of  quarried  stone  which  rise  into  the 
ruggedness  of  their  native  cliffs,  in  the  Pitti  and  Strozzi  pal- 
aces. 


LECTURE  VL 

TVTATTBT.F,  COUCHANT. 

137.  I told  you  in  my  last  lecture  that  the  exquisiteness  of 
Florentine  thirteenth  century  masonry  was  founded  on  the 
strength  and  splendour  of  that  which  preceded  it. 

I use  the  word  ‘ founded  ’ in  a literal  as  well  as  figurative 
sense.  While  the  merchants,  in  their  year  of  victories,  threw 
down  the  walls  of  the  war-towers,  they  as  eagerly  and  diligently 
set  their  best  craftsmen  to  lift  higher  the  walls  of  their 
churches.  For  the  most  part,  the  Early  Norman  or  Basilican 
forms  were  too  low  to  please  them  in  their  present  enthusi- 
asm. Their  pride,  as  well  as  their  piety,  desired  that  these 
stones  of  their  temples  might  be  goodly  ; and  all  kinds  of 
junctions,  insertions,  refittings,  and  elevations  were  under- 
taken ; which,  the  genius  of  the  people  being  always  for  mo- 
saic, are  so  perfectly  executed,  and  mix  up  twelfth  and  thir- 
teenth century  work  in  such  intricate  harlequinade,  that  it  is 
enough  to  drive  a poor  antiquary  wild. 

138.  I have  here  in  my  hand,  however,  a photograph  of  a 


MARBLE  COUCH  ANT. 


303 


small  church,  which  shows  you  the  change  at  a glance,  and  at- 
tests it  in  a notable  manner. 

You  know  Hubert  of  Lucca  was  the  first  captain  of  the 
Florentine  people,  and  the  march  in  which  they  struck  their 
florin  on  the  pine  trunk  was  through  Lucca,  on  Pisa. 

Now  here  is  a little  church  in  Lucca,  of  which  the  lower 
half  of  the  fa9ade  is  of  the  twelfth  century,  and  the  top,  built 
by  the  Florentines,  in  the  thirteenth,  and  sealed  for  their  own 
by  two  fleur-de-lys,  let  into  its  masonry.  The  most  important 
difference,  marking  the  date,  is  in  the  sculpture  of  the  heads 
which  carry  the  archivolts.  But  the  most  palpable  difference 
is  in  the  Cyclopean  simplicity  of  irregular  bedding  in  the 
lower  story  ; and  the  delicate  bands  of  alternate  serpentine 
and  marble,  which  follow  the  horizontal  or  couchant  placing 
of  the  stones  above. 

139.  Those  of  you  who,  interested  in  English  Gothic,  have 
visited  Tuscany,  are,  I think,  always  offended  at  first,  if 
not  in  permanence,  by  these  horizontal  stripes  of  her  marble 
walls.  Twenty-two  years  ago  I quoted,  in  vol.  i.  of  the 
“Stones  of  Venice,”  Professor  Willis’s  statement  that  “a 
practice  more  destructive  of  architectural  grandeur  could 
hardly  be  conceived  ; ” and  I defended  my  favourite  buildings 
against  that  judgement,  first  by  actual  comparison  in  the  plate 
opposite  the  page,  of  a piece  of  them  with  an  example  of  our 
modern  grandeur;  secondly,  (vol.  i.,  chap,  v.,)  by  a compari- 
son of  their  aspect  with  that  of  the  building  of  the  grandest 
piece  of  wall  in  the  Alps, — that  Matterhorn  in  which  you 
all  have  now  learned  to  take  some  gymnastic  interest ; and 
thirdly,  (vol.  i.,  chap,  xxvi.,)  by  reference  to  the  use  of  barred 
colours,  with  delight,  by  Giotto  and  all  subsequent  colourists. 

140.  But  it  did  not  then  occur  to  me  to  ask,  much  as  I 
always  disliked  the  English  Perpendicular,  what  would  have 
been  the  effect  on  the  spectator’s  mind,  had  the  buildings 
been  striped  vertically  instead  of  horizontally  ; nor  did  I then 
know,  or  in  the  least  imagine,  how  much  practical  need  there 
was  for  reference  from  the  structure  of  the  edifice  to  that  of 
the  cliff ; and  how  much  the  permanence,  as  well  as  propriety, 
of  structure  depended  on  the  stones  being  couchant  in  the 


304 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


wall,  as  they  had  been  in  the  quarry  : to  which  subject  I wish 
to-day  to  direct  your  attention. 

141.  You  will  find  stated  with  as  much  clearness  as  I am 
able,  in  the  first  and  fifth  lectures  in  “ Aratra  Pentelici,”  the 
principles  of  architectural  design  to  which,  in  all  my  future 
teaching,  I shall  have  constantly  to  appeal;  namely,  that  archi- 
tecture consists  distinctively  in  the  adaptation  of  form  to  resist 
force  ; — that,  practically,  it  may  be  always  thought  of  as  doing 
this  by  the  ingenious  adjustment  of  various  pieces  of  solid 
material  ; that  the  perception  of  this  ingenious  adjustment, 
or  structure,  is  to  be  always  joined  with  our  admiration  of  the 
superadded  ornament ; and  that  all  delightful  ornament  is  the 
honouring  of  such  useful  structures  ; but  that  the  beauty  of  the 
ornament  itself  is  independent  of  the  structure,  and  arrived 
at  by  powers  of  mind  of  a very  different  class  from  those 
which  are  necessary  to  give  skill  in  architecture  proper. 

142.  During  the  course  of  this  last  summer  I have  been 
myself  very  directly  interested  in  some  of  the  quite  element- 
ary processes  of  true  architecture.  I have  been  building  a 
little  pier  into  Coniston  Lake,  and  various  walls  and  terraces 
in  a steeply  sloping  garden,  all  which  had  to  be  constructed 
of  such  rough  stones  as  lay  nearest.  Under  the  dextrous  hands 
of  a neighbour  farmer’s  son,  the  pier  projected,  and  the  walls 
rose,  as  if  enchanted  ; every  stone  taking  its  proper  place,  and 
the  loose  dyke  holding  itself  as  firmly  upright  as  if  the  grip- 
ping cement  of  the  Florentine  towers  had  fastened  it.  My 
own  better  acquaintance  with  the  laws  of  gravity  and  of  statics 
did  not  enable  me,  myself,  to  build  six  inches  of  dyke  that 
would  stand  ; and  all  the  decoration  possible  under  the  circum- 
stances consisted  in  turning  the  lichened  sides  of  the  stones 
outwards.  And  yet  the  noblest  conditions  of  building  in  the 
world  are  nothing  more  than  the  gradual  adornment,  by  play 
of  the  imagination,  of  materials  first  arranged  by  this  natural 
instinct  of  adjustment.  You  must  not  lose  sight  of  the 
instinct  of  building,  but  you  must  not  think  the  play  of  the 
imagination  depends  upon  it.  Intelligent  laying  of  stones  is 
always  delightful ; but  the  fancy  must  not  be  limited  to  its 
contemplation. 


Plate  V. — Door  op  the  Baptistery.  Pisa. 


MARBLE  COUCH  ANT. 


305 


143.  In  the  more  elaborate  architecture  of  my  neighbour- 
hood, I have  taken  pleasure  these  many  years  ; one  of  the  first 
papers  I ever  wrote  on  architecture  was  a study  of  the  West- 
moreland cottage  ; — properly,  observe,  the  cottage  of  West- 
mere-land,  of  the  land  of  western  lakes.  Its  principal  feature 
is  the  projecting  porch  at  its  door,  formed  by  two  rough  slabs 
of  Coniston  slate,  set  in  a blunt  gable  ; supported,  if  far  pro- 
jecting, by  two  larger  masses  for  uprights.  A disciple  of  Mr. 
Pugin  would  delightedly  observe  that  the  porch  of  St.  Zeno 
at  Yerona  was  nothing  more  than  the  decoration  of  this  con- 
struction ; but  you  do  not  suppose  that  the  first  idea  of  put- 
ting two  stones  together  to  keep  off  rain  was  all  on  which  the 
sculptor  of  St.  Zeno  wished  to  depend  for  your  entertainment. 

144.  Perhaps  you  may  most  clearly  understand  the  real 
connection  between  structure  and  decoration  by  considering 
all  architecture  as  a kind  of  book,  which  must  be  properly 
bound  indeed,  and  in  which  the  illumination  of  the  pages  has 
distinct  reference  in  all  its  forms  to  the  breadth  of  the  margins 
and  length  of  the  sentences  ; but  is  itself  free  to  follow  its  own 
quite  separate  and  higher  objects  of  design. 

145.  Thus,  for  instance,  in  the  architecture  which  Niccola 
was  occupied  upon,  when  a boy,  under  his  Byzantine  master. 
Here  is  the  door  of  the  Baptistery  at  Pisa,  again  by  Mr.  Sev- 
ern delightfully  enlarged  for  us  from  a photograph.*  The 
general  idea  of  it  is  a square-headed  opening  in  a solid  wall, 
faced  by  an  arch  carried  on  shafts.  And  the  ornament  does 
indeed  follow  this  construction  so  that  the  eye  catches  it  with 
ease, — but  under  what  arbitrary  conditions ! In  the  square 
door,  certainly  the  side-posts  of  it  are  as  important  members  as 
the  lintel  they  carry  ; but  the  lintel  is  carved  elaborately,  and 
the  side-posts  left  blank.  Of  the  facing  arch  and  shaft,  it  would 
be  similarly  difficult  to  say  whether  the  sustaining  vertical,  or 
sustained  curve,  were  the  more  important  member  of  the  con- 
struction ; but  the  decorator  now  reverses  the  distribution  of 
his  care,  adorns  the  vertical  member  with  passionate  elabora- 

* Plate  5 is  from  the  photograph  itself  ; the  enlarged  drawing  showed 
the  arrangement  of  parts  more  clearly,  hut  necessarily  omitted  detail 
which  it  is  better  here  to  retain. 


306 


VAL  D 'ARNO. 


tion,  and  runs  a narrow  band,  of  comparatively  uninteresting 
work,  round  the  arch.  Between  this  outer  shaft  and  inner 
door  is  a square  pilaster,  of  which  the  architect  carves  one 
side,  and  lets  the  other  alone.  It  is  followed  by  a smaller 
shaft  and  arch,  in  which  he  reverses  his  treatment  of  the  outer 
order  by  cutting  the  shaft  delicately  and  the  arch  deeply. 
Again,  whereas  in  what  is  called  the  decorated  construction 
of  English  Gothic,  the  pillars  would  have  been  left  plain  and 
the  spandrils  deep  cut, — here,  are  we  to  call  it  decoration  of 
the  construction,  when  the  pillars  are  carved  and  the  spandrils 
left  plain  ? Or  when,  finally,  either  these  spandril  spaces  on 
each  side  of  the  arch,  or  the  corresponding  slopes  of  the  gable, 
are  loaded  with  recumbent  figures  by  the  sculptors  of  the  re- 
naissance, are  we  to  call,  for  instance,  Michael  Angelo’s  Dawn 
and  Twilight,  only  the  decorations  of  the  sloping  plinths  of  a 
tomb,  or  trace  to  a geometrical  propriety  the  subsequent  rule 
in  Italy  that  no  window  could  be  properly  complete  for  living 
people  to  look  out  of,  without  having  two  stone  people  sitting 
on  the  corners  of  it  above  ? I have  heard  of  charming  young 
ladies  occasionally,  at  very  crowded  balls,  sitting  on  the  stairs, 
— would  you  call  them,  in  that  case,  only  decorations  of  the 
construction  of  the  staircase  ? 

146.  You  will  find,  on  consideration,  the  ultimate  fact  to  be 
that  to  which  I have  just  referred  you ; — my  statement  in 
“ Aratra,”  that  the  idea  of  a construction  originally  useful  is 
retained  in  good  architecture,  through  all  the  amusement  of 
its  ornamentation  ; as  the  idea  of  the  proper  function  of  any 
piece  of  dress  ought  to  be  retained  through  its  changes  in  form 
or  embroidery.  A good  spire  or  porch  retains  the  first  idea 
of  a roof  usefully  covering  a space,  as  a Norman  high  cap  or 
elongated  Quaker’s  bonnet  retains  the  original  idea  of  a sim- 
ple covering  for  the  head  ; and  any  extravagance  of  subsequent 
fancy  may  be  permitted,  so  long  as  the  notion  of  use  is  not 
altogether  lost.  A girl  begins  by  wearing  a plain  round  hat 
to  shade  her  from  the  sun  ; she  ties  it  down  over  her  ears  on 
a windy  day  ; presently  she  decorates  the  edge  of  it,  so  bent, 
with  flowers  in  front,  or  the  riband  that  ties  it  with  a bouquet 
at  the  side,  and  it  becomes  a bonnet.  This  decorated  con- 


MARBLE  COU  CHANT 


307 


struction  may  be  discreetly  changed,  by  endless  fashion,  so 
long  as  it  does  not  become  a clearly  useless  riband  round  the 
middle  of  the  head,  or  a clearly  useless  saucer  on  the  top 
of  it. 

147.  Again,  a Norman  peasant  may  throw  up  the  top  of  her 
cap  into  a peak,  or  a Bernese  one  put  gauze  wings  at  the  side 
of  it,  and  still  be  dressed  with  propriety,  so  long  as  her  hair 
is  modestly  confined,  and  her  ears  healthily  protected,  by  the 
matronly  safeguard  of  the  real  construction.  She  ceases  to 
be  decorously  dressed  only  when  the  material  becomes  too 
flimsy  to  answer  such  essential  purpose,  and  the  flaunting 
pendants  or  ribands  can  only  answer  the  ends  of  coquetry  or 
ostentation.  Similarly,  an  architect  may  deepen  or  enlarge, 
in  fantastic  exaggeration,  his  original  Westmoreland  gable 
into  Rouen  porch,  and  his  original  square  roof  into  Coventry 
spire ; but  he  must  not  put  within  his  splendid  porch,  a 
little  door  where  two  persons  cannot  together  get  in,  nor  cut 
his  spire  away  into  hollow  filigree,  and  mere  ornamental  per- 
viousness to  wind  and  rain. 

148.  Returning  to  our  door  at  Pisa,  we  shall  find  these 
general  questions  as  to  the  distribution  of  ornament  much 
confused  with  others  as  to  its  time  and  style.  We  are  at 
once,  for  instance,  brought  to  a pause  as  to  the  degree  in 
which  the  ornamentation  was  once  carried  out  in  the  doors 
themselves.  Their  surfaces  were,  however,  I doubt  not,  once 
recipients  of  the  most  elaborate  ornament,  as  in  the  Baptistery 
of  Florence  ; and  in  later  bronze,  by  John  of  Bologna,  in  the 
door  of  the  Pisan  cathedral  opposite  this  one.  And  when  we 
examine  the  sculpture  and  placing  of  the  lintel,  which  at  first 
appeared  the  most  completely  Greek  piece  of  construction  of 
the  whole,  we  find  it  so  far  advanced  in  many  Gothic  char- 
acters, that  I once  thought  it  a later  interpolation  cutting  the 
inner  pilasters  underneath  their  capitals,  while  the  three 
statues  set  on  it  are  certainly,  by  several  tens  of  years,  later 
still. 

149.  How  much  ten  years  did  at  this  time,  one  is  apt  to 
forget ; and  how  irregularly  the  slower  minds  of  the  older 
men  would  surrender  themselves,  sadly,  or  awkwardly,  to  the 


308 


VAL  D ’ARNO. 


vivacities  of  their  pupils.  The  only  wonder  is  that  it  should 
be  usually  so  easy  to  assign  conjectural  dates  within  twenty  or 
thirty  years  ; but,  at  Pisa,  the  currents  of  tradition  and  in- 
vention run  with  such  cross  eddies,  that  I often  find  myself 
utterly  at  fault.  In  this  lintel,  for  instance,  there  are  two 
pieces  separated  by  a narrower  one,  on  which  there  has  been 
an  inscription,  of  which  in  my  enlarged  plate  you  may  trace, 
though,  I fear,  not  decipher,  the  few  letters  that  remain.  The 
uppermost  of  these  stones  is  nearly  pure  in  its  Byzantine 
style  ; the  lower,  already  semi-Gothic.  Both  are  exquisite  of 
their  kind,  and  we  will  examine  them  closely  ; but  first  note 
these  points  about  the  stones  of  them.  We  are  discussing 
work  at  latest  of  the  thirteenth  century.  Our  loss  of  the  in- 
scription is  evidently  owing  to  the  action  of  the  iron  rivets 
which  have  been  causelessly  used  at  the  two  horizontal  joints. 
There  was  nothing  whatever  in  the  construction  to  make  these 
essential,  and,  but  for  this  error,  the  entire  piece  of  work,  as 
delicate  as  an  ivory  tablet,  would  be  as  intelligible  to-day  as 
when  it  was  laid  in  its  place.* 

150.  Laid.  I pause  upon  this  word,  for  it  is  an  important 
one.  And  I must  devote  the  rest  of  this  lecture  to  considera- 
tion merely  of  what  follows  from  the  difference  between  lay- 
ing a stone  and  setting  it  up,  whether  we  regard  sculpture  or 
construction.  The  subject  is  so  wide,  I scarcely  know  how  to 
approach  it.  Perhaps  it  will  be  the  pleasantest  way  to  begin 
if  I read  you  a letter  from  one  of  yourselves  to  me.  A very 
favourite  pupil,  who  travels  third  class  always,  for  sake  of 
better  company,  wrote  to  me  the  other  day  : “ One  of  my  fel- 
low-travellers, who  was  a builder,  or  else  a master  mason, 
told  me  that  the  way  in  which  red  sandstone  buildings  last 
depends  entirely  on  the  way  in  which  the  stone  is  laid.  It 
must  lie  as  it  does  in  the  quarry ; but  he  said  that  very  few 
workmen  could  always  tell  the  difference  between  the  joints 
of  planes  of  cleavage  and  the — something  else  which  I couldn’t 
catch, — by  which  he  meant,  I suppose  planes  of  stratification. 
He  said  too  that  some  people,  though  they  were  very  particu- 

* Plates  6 and  7 give,  in  greater  clearness,  the  sculpture  of  this  lintel, 
for  notes  on  which  see  Appendix. 


Plate  VI. — The  Story  of  St.  John.  Advent. 


Plate  VII. — The  Story  of  St.  John.  Departure. 


MARBLE  COU CHANT. 


309 


lar  about  having  the  stone  laid  well,  allowed  blocks  to  stand 
in  the  rain  the  wrong  way  up,  and  that  they  never  recovered 
one  wetting.  The  stone  of  the  same  quarry  varies  much,  and 
he  said  that  moss  will  grow  immediately  on  good  stone,  but 
not  on  bad.  How  curious, — nature  helping  the  best  work- 
man ! ” Thus  far  my  favourite  pupil. 

151.  ‘Moss  will  grow  on  the  best  stone.’  The  first  thing 
your  modern  restorer  would  do  is  to  scrape  it  off ; and  with 
it,  whatever  knitted  surface,  half  moss  root,  protects  the  in- 
terior stone.  Have  you  ever  considered  the  infinite  functions 
of  protection  to  mountain  form  exercised  by  the  mosses  and 
lichens  ? It  will  perhaps  be  refreshing  to  you  after  our  work 
among  the  Pisan  marbles  and  legends,  if  we  have  a lecture  or 
two  on  moss.  Meantime  I need  not  tell  you  that  it  would  not 
be  a satisfactory  natural  arrangement  if  moss  grew  on  marble, 
and  that  all  fine  workmanship  in  marble  implies  equal  exqui- 
siteness of  surface  and  edge. 

152.  You  will  observe  also  that  the  importance  of  laying 
the  stone  in  the  building  as  it  lay  in  its  bed  was  from  the 
first  recognised  by  all  good  northern  architects,  to  such  ex- 
tent that  to  lay  stones  ‘ en  delit,’  or  in  a position  out  of  their 
bedding,  is  a recognized  architectural  term  in  France,  where 
all  structural  building  takes  its  rise  ; and  in  that  form  of 
‘ delit  ’ the  word  gets  most  curiously  involved  with  the  Latin 
delictum  and  deliquium.  It  would  occupy  the  time  of  a 
whole  lecture  if  I entered  into  the  confused  relations  of  the 
words  derived  from  lectus,  liquidus,  delinquo,  diliquo,  and 
deliquesco  ; and  of  the  still  more  confused,  but  beautifully 
confused,  (and  enriched  by  confusion,)  forms  of  idea,  whether 
respecting  morality  or  marble,  arising  out  of  the  meanings  of 
these  words  : the  notions  of  a bed  gathered  or  strewn  for  the 
rest,  whether  of  rocks  or  men  ; of  the  various  states  of  solidity 
and  liquidity  connected  with  strength,  or  with  repose  ; and  of 
the  duty  of  staying  quiet  in  a place,  or  under  a law,  and  the 
mischief  of  leaving  it,  being  all  fastened  in  the  minds  of  early 
builders,  and  of  the  generations  of  men  for  whom  they  built, 
by  the  unescapable  bearing  of  geological  laws  on  their  life  ; 
by  the  ease  or  difficulty  of  splitting  rocks,  by  the  variable 


310 


VAL  D 11  ARNO. 


consistency  of  the  fragments  split,  by  the  innumerable  ques- 
tions occurring  practically  as  to  bedding  and  cleavage  in  every 
kind  of  stone,  from  tufo  to  granite,  and  by  the  unseemly,  or 
beautiful,  destructive,  or  protective,  effects  of  decomposition.* 
The  same  processes  of  time  which  cause  your  Oxford  oolite  to 
flake  away  like  the  leaves  of  a mouldering  book,  only  warm 
with  a glow  of  perpetually  deepening  gold  the  marbles  of 
Athens  and  Verona ; and  the  same  laws  of  chemical  change 
which  reduce  the  granites  of  Dartmoor  to  porcelain  clay,  bind 
the  sands  of  Coventry  into  stones  which  can  be  built  up  half- 
way to  the  sky. 

153.  But  now,  as  to  the  matter  immediately  before  us,  ob- 
serve what  a double  question  arises  about  laying  stones  as 
they  lie  in  the  quarry.  First,  how  do  they  lie  in  the  quarry  ? 
Secondly,  how  can  we  lay  them  so  in  every  part  of  our 
building  ? 

A.  How  do  they  lie  in  the  quarry?  Level,  perhaps,  at  Stones- 
field  and  Coventry  ; but  at  an  angle  of  45°  at  Carrara  ; and 
for  aught  I know,  of  90°  in  Paros  or  Pentelicus.  Also,  the 
bedding  is  of  prime  importance  at  Coventry,  but  the  cleav- 
age at  Coniston.f 

B.  And  then,  even  if  we  know  what  the  quarry  bedding  is, 
how  are  we  to  keep  it  always  in  our  building?  You  may  lay 
the  stones  of  a wall  carefully  level,  but  how  will  you  lay  those 
of  an  arch?  You  think  these,  perhaps,  trivial,  or  merely  curi- 
ous questions.  So  far  from  it,  the  fact  that  while  the  bedding 
in  Normandy  is  level,  that  at  Carrara  is  steep,  and  that  the 

* This  passage  cannot  hut  seem  to  the  reader  loose  and  fantastic. 
I have  elaborate  notes,  and  many  an  unwritten  thought,  on  these  mat- 
ters, but  no  time  or  strength  to  develop  them.  The  passage  is  not  fan- 
tastic, hut  the  rapid  index  of  what  I know  to  be  true  in  all  the  named 
particulars.  But  compare,  for  mere  rough  illustration  of  what  I mean, 
the  moral  ideas  relating  to  the  stone  of  Jacob’s  pillow,  or  the  tradition 
of  it,  with  those  to  which  French  Flamboyant  Gothic  owes  its  character. 

f There  are  at  least  four  definite  cleavages  at  Coniston,  besides  joints. 
One  of  these  cleavages  furnishes  the  Coniston  slate  of  commerce ; 
another  forms  the  ranges  of  Wetherlam  and  Yewdale  crag ; a third 
cuts  these  ranges  to  pieces,  striking  from  north-west  to  south-east  ; and 
a fourth  into  other  pieces,  from  north-east  to  south-west. 


MARBLE  CO  V CHANT. 


311 


forces  which  raised  the  beds  of  Carrara  crystallized  them  also, 
so  that  the  cleavage  which  is  all-important  in  the  stones  of  my 
garden  wall  is  of  none  in  the  duomo  of  Pisa, — simply  deter- 
mined the  possibility  of  the  existence  of  Pisan  sculpture  at 
all,  and  regulated  the  whole  life  and  genius  of  Nicholas  the 
Pisan  and  of  Christian  art.  And,  again,  the  fact  that  you  can 
put  stones  in  true  bedding  in  a wall,  but  cannot  in  an  arch, 
determines  the  structural  transition  from  classical  to  Gothic 
architecture. 

154.  The  structural  transition,  observe  ; only  a part,  and 
that  not  altogether  a coincident  part,  of  the  moral  transition. 
Bead  carefully,  if  you  have  time,  the  articles  ‘ Pierre  * and 
‘ Meneau  ’ in  M.  Violet  le  Due’s  Dictionary  of  Architecture, 
and  you  will  know  everything  that  is  of  importance  in  the 
changes  dependent  on  the  mere  qualities  of  matter.  I must, 
however,  try  to  set  in  your  view  also  the  relative  acting  quali- 
ties of  mind. 

You  will  find  that  M.  Violet  le  Due  traces  all  the  forms  of 
Gothic  tracery  to  the  geometrical  and  practically  serviceable 
development  of  the  stone  * chassis,’  chasing,  or  frame,  for 
the  glass.  For  instance,  he  attributes  the  use  of  the  cusp 
or  ‘ redent  ’ in  its  more  complex  forms,  to  the  necessity,  or 
convenience,  of  diminishing  the  space  of  glass  which  the  tra- 
cery grasps  ; and  he  attributes  the  reductions  of  the  mouldings 
in  the  tracery  bar  under  portions  of  one  section,  to  the  greater 
facility  thus  obtained  by  the  architect  in  directing  his  work- 
men. The  plan  of  a window  once  given,  and  the  moulding- 
section,  all  is  said,  thinks  M.  Violet  le  Due.  Very  conven- 
ient indeed,  for  modern  architects  who  have  commission  on 
the  cost.  But  certainly  not  necessary,  and  perhaps  even  in- 
convenient, to  Niccola  Pisano,  who  is  himself  his  workman, 
and  cuts  his  own  traceries,  with  his  apron  loaded  with  dust. 

155.  Again,  the  redent— the  ‘tooth  within  tooth’  of  a 
French  tracery— may  be  necessary,  to  bite  its  glass.  But  the 
cusp,  cuspis,  spiny  or  spearlike  point  of  a thirteenth  century 
illumination,  is  not  in  the  least  necessary  to  transfix  the  parch- 
ment. Yet  do  you  suppose  that  the  structural  convenience  of 
the  redent  entirely  effaces  from  the  mind  of  the  designer  the 


312 


VAL  D 'ARNO. 


aesthetic  characters  which  he  seeks  in  the  cusp  ? If  you  could 
for  an  instant  imagine  this,  you  would  be  undeceived  by  a 
glance  either  at  the  early  re  dents  of  Amiens,  fringing  hollow 
vaults,  or  the  late  redents  of  Rouen,  acting  as  crockets  on  the 
outer  edges  of  pediments. 

156.  Again  : if  you  think  of  the  tracery  in  its  bars , you  call 
the  cusp  a redent ; but  if  you  think  of  it  in  the  openings , you 
call  the  apertures  of  it  foils.  Do  you  suppose  that  the  thir- 
teenth century  builder  thought  only  of  the  strength  of  the 
bars  of  his  enclosure,  and  never  of  the  beauty  of  the  form  he 
enclosed  ? You  will  find  in  my  chapter  on  the  Aperture,  in 
the  “Stones  of  Venice, ” full  development  of  the  aesthetic lawrs 
relating  to  both  these  forms,  while  you  may  see,  in  Professor 
Willis’s  ‘ Architecture  of  the  Middle  Ages,’  a beautiful  analysis 
of  the  development  of  tracery  from  the  juxtaposition  of  aper- 
ture ; and  in  the  article  ‘ Meneau,’  just  quoted  of  M.  Violet  le 
Due,  an  equally  beautiful  analysis  of  its  development  from  the 
masonry  of  the  chassis.  You  may  at  first  think  that  Profes- 
sor Willis’s  analysis  is  inconsistent  with  M.  Violet  le  Due’s. 
But  they  are  no  more  inconsistent  than  the  accounts  of  the 
growth  of  a human  being  would  be,  if  given  by  two  anato- 
mists, of  whom  one  had  examined  only  the  skeleton,  and  the 
other  only  the  respiratory  system ; and  who,  therefore,  sup- 
posed— the  first,  that  the  animal  had  been  made  only  to  leap, 
and  the  other  only  to  sing.  I don’t  mean  that  either  of  the 
writers  I name  are  absolutely  thus  narrow  in  their  own  views, 
but  that,  so  far  as  inconsistency  appears  to  exist  between 
them,  it  is  of  that  partial  kind  only. 

157.  And  for  the  understanding  of  our  Pisan  traceries  we 
must  introduce  a third  element  of  similarly  distinctive  nature. 
We  must,  to  press  our  simile  a little  farther,  examine  the 
growth  of  the  animal  as  if  it  had  been  made  neither  to  leap, 
nor  to  sing,  but  only  to  think.  We  must  observe  the  tran- 
sitional states  of  its  nerve  power  ; that  is  to  say,  in  our  win- 
dow tracery  we  must  consider  not  merely  how  its  ribs  are 
built,  (or  how  it  stands,)  nor  merely  how  its  openings  are 
shaped,  or  how  it  breathes ; but  also  what  its  openings  are 
made  to  light,  or  its  shafts  to  receive,  of  picture  or  image. 


MARBLE  GOUGHANT 


313 


As  tlie  limbs  of  the  building,  it  may  be  much  ; as  the  lungs  of 
the  building,  more.  As  the  eyes  * of  the  building,  what  ? 

158.  Thus  you  probably  have  a distinct  idea— those  of  you 
at  least  who  are  interested  in  architecture— of  the  shape  of 
the  windows  in  Westminster  Abbey,  in  the  Cathedral  of 
Chartres,  or  in  the  Duomo  of  Milan.  Can  any  of  you,  I 
should  like  to  know,  make  a guess  at  the  shape  of  the  win- 
dows in  the  Sistine  Chapel,  the  Stanze  of  the  Vatican,  the 
Scuola  di  San  Rocco,  or  the  lower  church  of  Assisi?  The 
soul  or  anima  of  the  first  three  buildings  is  in  their  windows  ; 
but  of  the  last  three,  in  their  walls. 

All  these  points  I may  for  the  present  leave  you  to  think 
over  for  yourselves,  except  one,  to  which  I must  ask  3ret  for  a 
few  moments  your  further  attention. 

159.  The  trefoils  to  which  I have  called  your  attention  in 
Niccola’s  pulpit  are  as  absolutely  without  structural  office  in 
the  circles  as  in  the  panels  of  the  font  beside  it.  But  the 
circles  are  drawn  with  evident  delight  in  the  lovely  circular 
line,  while  the  trefoil  is  struck  out  by  Niccola  so  roughly  that 
there  is  not  a true  compass  curve  or  section  in  any  part  of  it. 

Roughly,  I say.  Do  you  suppose  I ought  to  have  said  care- 
lessly ? So  far  from  it,  that  if  one  sharper  line  or  more 
geometric  curve  had  been  given,  it  would  have  caught  the 
eye  too  strongly,  and  drawn  away  the  attention  from  the 
sculpture.  But  imagine  the  feeling  with  which  a French 
master  workman  would  first  see  these  clumsy  intersections  of 
curves.  It  would  be  exactly  the  sensation  with  which  a prac- 
tical botanical  draughtsman  would  look  at  a foliage  back- 
ground of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds. 

But  Sir  Joshua’s  sketched  leaves  would  indeed  imply  some 
unworkmanlike  haste.  We  must  not  yet  assume  the  Pisan 
master  to  have  allowed  himself  in  any  such.  His  mouldings 
may  be  hastily  cut,  for  they  are,  as  I have  just  said,  unneces- 
sary to  his  structure,  and  disadvantageous  to  his  decoration  ; 

* I am  ashamed  to  italicize  so  many  words  ; but  these  passages, 
written  for  oral  delivery,  can  only  be  understood  if  read  with  oral 
emphasis.  This  is  the  first  series  of  lectures  which  I have  printed  as 
they  were  to  be  spoken  ; and  it  is  a great  mistake. 


314 


VAL  D 'ARNO. 


but  he  is  not  likely  to  be  careless  about  arrangements  neces- 
sary for  strength.  His  mouldings  may  be  cut  hastily,  but  do 
you  think  his  joints  will  be  ? 

160.  What  subject  of  extended  inquiry  have  we  in  this 
word,  ranging  from  the  cementless  clefts  between  the  couch- 
ant  stones  of  the  walls  of  the  kings  of  Rome,  whose  iron 
rivets  you  had  but  the  other  day  placed  in  your  hands  by  their 
discoverer,  through  the  grip  of  the  stones  of  the  Tower  of  the 
Death-watch,  to  the  subtle  joints  in  the  marble  armour  of  the 
Florentine  Baptistery  ! 

Our  own  work  must  certainly  be  left  with  a rough  surface 
at  this  place,  and  we  will  fit  the  edges  of  it  to  our  next  piece 
of  study  as  closely  as  we  may. 


LECTURE  YH. 

MARBLE  RAMPANT. 

161.  I closed  my  last  lecture  at  the  question  respecting 
Nicholas’s  masonry.  His  mouldings  may  be  careless,  but  do 
you  think  his  joints  will  be  ? 

I must  remind  you  now  of  the  expression  as  to  the  building 
of  the  communal  palace — “of  dressed  stones”* — as  opposed 
to  the  Tower  of  the  Death-watch,  in  which  the  grip  of  cement 
had  been  so  good.  Virtually,  you  will  find  that  the  schools 
of  structural  architecture  are  those  which  use  cement  to  bind 

* “Pietre  conce.”  The  portion  of  the  bas-reliefs  of  Orvieto,  given 
in  the  opposite  plate,  will  show  the  importance  of  the  jointing.  Observe 
the  way  in  which  the  piece  of  stone  with  the  three  principal  figures  is 
dovetailed  above  the  extended  band,  and  again  in  the  rise  above  the 
joint  of  the  next  stone  on  the  right,  the  sculpture  of  the  wings  being 
carried  across  the  junction.  I have  chosen  this  piece  on  purpose,  be- 
cause the  loss  of  the  broken  fragment,  probably  broken  by  violence, 
and  the  only  serious  injury  which  the  sculptures  have  received,  serves 
to  show  the  perfection  of  the  uninjured  surface,  as  compared  with 
northern  sculpture  of  the  same  date.  I have  thought  it  well  to  show 
at  the  same  time  the  modern  German  engraving  of  the  subject,  respect- 
ing which  see  Appendix. 


Adam.”  Giovanni  Pisano. 


MARBLE  RAMPANT. 


315 


their  materials  together,  and  in  which,  therefore,  balance  of 
weight  becomes  a continual  and  inevitable  question.  But  the 
schools  of  sculptural  architecture  are  those  in  which  stones 
are  fitted  without  cement, — in  which,  therefore,  the  question 
of  fitting  or  adjustment  is  continual  and  inevitable,  but  the 
sustainable  weight  practically  unlimited. 

162.  You  may  consider  the  Tower  of  the  Death-watch  as 
having  been  knit  together  like  the  mass  of  a Roman  brick 
wall. 

But  the  dressed  stone  work  of  the  thirteenth  century  is  the 
hereditary  completion  of  such  block-laying,  as  the  Parthenon 
in  marble  ; or,  in  tufo,  as  that  which  was  shown  you  so  lately 
in  the  walls  of  Romulus  ; and  the  decoration  of  that  system 
of  couchant  stone  is  by  the  finished  grace  of  mosaic  or  sculpt- 
ure. 

163.  It  was  also  pointed  out  to  you  by  Mr.  Parker  that 
there  were  two  forms  of  Cyclopean  architecture  ; one  of  level 
blocks,  the  other  of  polygonal, — contemporary,  but  in  locali- 
ties affording  different  material  of  stone. 

I have  placed  in  this  frame  examples  of  the  Cyclopean  hori- 
zontal, and  the  Cyclopean  polygonal,  architecture  of  the  thir- 
teenth century.  And  as  Hubert  of  Lucca  was  the  master  of 
the  new  buildings  at  Florence,  I have  chosen  the  Cyclopean 
horizontal  from  his  native  city  of  Lucca  ; and  as  our  Nicholas 
and  John  brought  their  new  Gothic  style  into  practice  at 
Orvieto,  I have  chosen  the  Cyclopean  polygonal  from  their 
adopted  city  of  Orvieto. 

Both  these  examples  of  architecture  are  early  thirteenth 
century  work,  the  beginnings  of  its  new  and  Christian  style, 
but  beginnings  with  which  Nicholas  and  John  had  nothing 
to  do  ; they  were  part  of  the  national  work  going  on  round 
them. 

164.  And  this  example  from  Lucca  is  of  a very  important 
class  indeed.  It  is  from  above  the  east  entrance  gate  of 
Lucca,  which  bears  the  cross  above  it,  as  the  doors  of  a 
Christian  city  should.  Such  a city  is,  or  ought  to  be,  a place 
of  peace,  as  much  as  any  monastery. 

This  custom  of  placing  the  cross  above  the  gate  is  Byzan- 


316 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


tine-Christian  ; and  here  are  parallel  instances  of  its  treatment 
from  Assisi.  The  lamb  with  the  cross  is  given  in  the  more 
elaborate  arch  of  Verona. 

165.  But  farther.  The  mosaic  of  this  cross  is  so  exquisitely 
fitted  that  no  injury  has  been  received  by  it  to  this  day  from 
wind  or  weather.  And  the  horizontal  dressed  stones  are  laid 
so  daintily  that  not  an  edge  of  them  has  stirred  ; and,  both 
to  draw  your  attention  to  their  beautiful  fitting,  and  as  a sub- 
stitute for  cement,  the  architect  cuts  his  uppermost  block  so 
as  to  dovetail  into  the  course  below. 

Dovetail,  I say  deliberately.  This  is  stone  carpentry,  in 
which  the  carpenter  despises  glue.  I don’t  say  he  won’t  use 
glue,  and  glue  of  the  best,  but  he  feels  it  to  be  a nasty  thing, 
and  that  it  spoils  his  wood  or  marble.  None,  at  least,  he 
determines  shall  be  seen  outside,  and  his  laying  of  stones 
shall  be  so  solid  and  so  adjusted  that,  take  all  the  cement 
away,  his  wall  shall  yet  stand. 

Stonehenge,  the  Parthenon,  the  walls  of  the  Kings,  this 
gate  of  Lucca,  this  window  of  Orvieto,  and  this  tomb  at 
Verona,  are  all  built  on  the  Cyclopean  principle.  They  will 
stand  without  cement,  and  no  cement  shall  be  seen  outside. 
Mr.  Burgess  and  I actually  tried  the  experiment  on  this  tomb. 
Mr.  Burgess  modelled  every  stone  of  it  in  clay,  put  them  to- 
gether, and  it  stood. 

166.  Now  there  are  two  most  notable  characteristics  about 
this  Cyclopean  architecture  to  which  I beg  your  close  atten- 
tion. 

The  first : that  as  the  laying  of  stones  is  so  beautiful,  their 
joints  become  a subject  of  admiration,  and  great  part  of  the 
architectural  ornamentation  is  in  the  beauty  of  lines  of  sepa- 
ration, drawn  as  finely  as  possible.  Thus  the  separating  lines 
of  the  bricks  at  Siena,  of  this  gate  at  Lucca,  of  the  vault  at 
Verona,  of  this  window  at  Orvieto,  and  of  the  contemporary 
refectory  at  Furness  Abbey,  are  a main  source  of  the  pleasure 
you  have  in  the  building.  Nay,  they  are  not  merely  engrav- 
ers’ lines,  but,  in  finest  practice,  they  are  mathematical  lines 
— length  without  breadth.  Here  in  my  hand  is  a little  shaft 
of  Florentine  mosaic  executed  at  the  present  day  The  sepa- 


MARBLE  RAMPANT. 


317 


rations  between  the  stones  are,  in  dimension,  mathematical 
lines.  And  the  two  sides  of  the  thirteenth  century  porch  of 
St.  Anastasia  at  Yerona  are  built  in  this  manner, — so  exqui- 
sitely, that  for  some  time,  my  mind  not  having  been  set  at  it, 
I passed  them  by  as  painted ! 

167.  That  is  the  first  character  of  the  Florentine  Cyclopeam 
But  secondly ; as  the  joints  are  so  firm,  and  as  the  building 
must  never  stir  or  settle  after  it  is  built,  the  sculptor  may 
trust  his  work  to  two  stones  set  side  by  side,  or  one  above  an- 
other, and  carve  continuously  over  the  whole  surface,  disre- 
garding the  joints,  if  he  so  chooses. 

Of  the  degree  of  precision  with  which  Nicholas  of  Pisa  and 
his  son  adjusted  their  stones,  you  may  judge  by  this  rough 
sketch  of  a piece  of  St.  Mary’s  of  the  Thorn,  in  which  the  de- 
sign is  of  panels  enclosing  very  delicately  sculptured  heads ; 
and  one  would  naturally  suppose  that  the  enclosing  panels 
would  be  made  of  jointed  pieces,  and  the  heads  carved  sepa- 
rately and  inserted.  But  the  Pisans  would  have  considered 
that  unsafe  masonry, — liable  to  the  accident  of  the  heads  being 
dropped  out,  or  taken  away.  John  of  Pisa  did  indeed  use 
such  masonry,  of  necessity,  in  his  fountain  ; and  the  bas-reliefs 
have  been  taken  away.  But  here  one  great  block  of  marble 
forms  part  of  two  panels,  and  the  mouldings  and  head  are  both 
carved  in  the  solid,  the  joint  running  just  behind  the  neck. 

168.  Such  masonry  is,  indeed,  supposing  there  were  no  fear 
of  thieves,  gratuitously  precise  in  a case  of  this  kind,  in  which 
the  ornamentation  is  in  separate  masses,  and  might  be  sepa- 
rately carved.  But  when  the  ornamentation  is  current,  and 
flows  or  climbs  along  the  stone  in  the  manner  of  waves  or 
plants,  the  concealment  of  the  joints  of  the  pieces  of  marble 
becomes  altogether  essential.  And  here  we  enter  upon  a 
most  curious  group  of  associated  characters  in  Gothic  as  op- 
posed to  Greek  architecture. 

169.  If  you  have  been  able  to  read  the  article  to  which  I 
referred  you,  ‘Meneau,’  in  M.  Violet  le  Due’s  dictionary,  you 
know  that  one  great  condition  of  the  perfect  Gothic  structure 
is  that  the  stones  shall  be  c en  de-lit,’  set  up  on  end.  The  or- 
nament then,  which  on  the  reposing  or  couchant  stone  was 


318 


VAL  D ARNO. 


current  only,  on  the  erected  stone  begins  to  climb  also,  and 
becomes,  in  the  most  heraldic  sense  of  the  term,  rampant. 

In  the  heraldic  sense,  I say,  as  distinguished  from  the  still 
wider  original  sense  of  advancing  with  a stealthy,  creeping,  or 
clinging  motion,  as  a serpent  on  the  ground,  and  a cat,  or  a 
vine,  up  a tree-stem.  And  there  is  one  of  these  reptile,  creep- 
ing, or  rampant  things,  which  is  the  first  whose  action  was 
translated  into  marble,  and  otherwise  is  of  boundless  impor- 
tance in  the  arts  and  labours  of  man. 

170.  You  recollect  Kingsley’s  expression, — now  hackneyed, 
because  admired  for  its  precision, — the  ‘crawling  foam,’  of 
waves  advancing  on  sand.  Tennyson  has  somewhere  also  used, 
with  equal  truth,  the  epithet  ‘ climbing  ’ of  the  spray  of  break- 
ers against  vertical  rock.*  In  either  instance,  the  sea  action 
is  literally  * rampant  ’ ; and  the  course  of  a great  breaker, 
whether  in  its  first  proud  likeness  to  a rearing  horse,  or  in  the 
humble  and  subdued  gaining  of  the  outmost  verge  of  its  foam 
on  the  sand,  or  the  intermediate  spiral  whorl  which  gathers 
into  a lustrous  precision,  like  that  of  a polished  shell,  the 
grasping  force  of  a giant,  you  have  the  most  vivid  sight  and 
embodiment  of  literally  rampant  energy  ; which  the  Greeks 
expressed  in  their  symbolic  Poseidon,  Scylla,  and  sea-horse, 
by  the  head  and  crest  of  the  man,  dog,  or  horse,  with  the 
body  of  the  serpent ; and  of  which  you  will  find  the  slower 
image,  in  vegetation,  rendered  both  by  the  spiral  tendrils  of 
grasping  or  climbing  plants,  and  the  perennial  gaining  of  the 
foam  or  the  lichen  upon  barren  shores  of  stone. 

171.  If  you  will  look  to  the  thirtieth  chapter  of  vol.  L in  the 
new  edition  of  the  “ Stones  of  Venice,”  which,  by  the  gift  of  its 
publishers,  I am  enabled  to  lay  on  your  table  to  be  placed  in 
your  library,  you  will  find  one  of  my  first  and  most  eager 
statements  of  the  necessity  of  inequality  or  change  in  form, 
made  against  the  common  misunderstanding  of  Greek  sym- 
metry, and  illustrated  by  a woodcut  of  the  spiral  ornament  on 
the  treasury  of  Atreus  at  Mycenae.  All  that  is  said  in  that 
chapter  respecting  nature  and  the  ideal,  I now  beg  most  ear- 

* Perhaps  I am  thinking  of  Lowell,  not  Tennyson  ; I have  not  time  to 
look. 


MARBLE  RAMPANT. 


319 


nestly  to  recommend  and  ratify  to  you  ; but  although,  even 
at  that  time,  I knew  more  of  Greek  art  than  my  antagonists, 
my  broken  reading  has  given  me  no  conception  of  the  range 
of  its  symbolic  power,  nor  of  the  function  of  that  more  or  less 
formal  spiral  line,  as  expressive,  not  only  of  the  waves  of  the 
sea,  but  of  the  zones  of  the  whirlpool,  the  return  of  the  tem- 
pest, and  the  involution  of  the  labyrinth.  And  although  my 
readers  say  that  I wrote  then  better  than  I write  now,  I cannot 
refer  you  to  the  passage  without  asking  you  to  pardon  in  it 
what  I now  hold  to  be  the  petulance  and  vulgarity  of  expres- 
sion, disgracing  the  importance  of  the  truth  it  contains.  A 
little  while  ago,  without  displeasure,  you  permitted  me  to  de- 
lay you  by  the  account  of  a dispute  on  a matter  of  taste  be- 
tween my  father  and  me,  in  which  he  was  quietly  and  unavail- 
ingly  right.  It  seems  to  me  scarcely  a day,  since,  with  boyish 
conceit,  I resisted  his  wise  entreaties  that  I would  re-word  this 
clause  ; and  especially  take  out  of  it  the  description  of  a sea- 
wave  as  “ laying  a great  white  tablecloth  of  foam  ” all  the  way 
to  the  shore.  Now,  after  an  interval  of  twenty  years,  I refer 
you  to  the  passage,  repentant  and  humble  as  far  as  regards  its 
style,  which  people  sometimes  praised,  but  with  absolue  re- 
assertion of  the  truth  and  value  of  its  contents,  which  people 
always  denied.  As  natural  form  is  varied,  so  must  beautiful 
ornament  be  varied.  You  are  not  an  artist  by  reproving  nat- 
ure into  deathful  sameness,  but  by  animating  your  copy  of 
her  into  vital  variation.  But  I thought  at  that  time  that  only 
Goths  were  rightly  changeful.  I never  thought  Greeks  were. 
Their  reserved  variation  escaped  me,  or  I thought  it  accidental. 
Here,  however,  is  a coin  of  the  finest  Greek  workmanship, 
which  shows  you  their  mind  in  this  matter  unmistakably. 
Here  are  the  waves  of  the  Adriatic  round  a knight  of  Tarentum, 
and  there  is  no  doubt  of  their  variableness. 

172.  This  pattern  of  sea-wave,  or  river  whirlpool,  entirely 
sacred  in  the  Greek  mind,  and  the  poa-rpvxo^  or  similarly 
curling  wave  in  flowing  hair,  are  the  two  main  sources  of  the 
spiral  form  in  lambent  or  rampant  decoration.  Of  such  lam- 
bent ornament,  the  most  important  piece  is  the  crocket,  of 
which  I rapidly  set  before  you  the  origin. 


320 


VAL  D 'ARNO. 


173.  Here  is  a drawing  of  the  gable  of  the  bishop’s  throne 
in  the  upper  church  at  Assisi,  of  the  exact  period  when  the 
mosaic  workers  of  the  thirteenth  century  at  Borne  adopted 
rudely  the  masonry  of  the  north.  Briefly,  this  is  a Greek 
temple  pediment,  in  which,  doubtful  of  their  power  to  carve 
figures  beautiful  enough,  they  cut  a trefoiled  hold  for  orna- 
ment, and  bordered  the  edges  with  harlequinade  of  mosaic. 
They  then  call  to  their  help  the  Greek  sea-waves,  and  let  the 
surf  of  the  iEgean  climb  along  the  slopes,  and  toss  itself  at 
the  top  into  a fleur-de-lys.  Every  wave  is  varied  in  outline 
and  proportionate  distance,  though  cut  with  a precision  of 
curve  like  that  of  the  sea  itself.  From  this  root  we  are  able 
— but  it  must  be  in  a lecture  on  crockets  only — to  trace  the 
succeeding  changes  through  the  curl  of  Bichard  H.’s  hair, 
and  the  crisp  leaves  of  the  forests  of  Picardy,  to  the  knobbed 
extravagances  of  expiring  Gothic.  But  I must  to-day  let  you 
compare  one  piece  of  perfect  Gothic  work  with  the  perfect 
Greek. 

174.  There  is  no  question  in  my  own  mind,  and,  I believe, 
none  in  that  of  any  other  long-practised  student  of  mediaeval 
art,  that  in  pure  structural  Gothic  the  church  of  St.  Urbain 
at  Troyes  is  without  rival  in  Europe.  Here  is  a rude  sketch 
of  its  use  of  the  crocket  in  the  spandrils  of  its  external 
tracery,  and  here  are  the  waves  of  the  Greek  sea  round  the 
son  of  Poseidon.  Seventeen  hundred  years  are  between  them, 
but  the  same  mind  is  in  both.  I wonder  how  many  times 
seventeen  hundred  years  Mr.  Darwin  will  ask,  to  retrace  the 
Greek  designer  of  this  into  his  primitive  ape  ; or  how  many 
times  six  hundred  years  of  such  improvements  as  we  have 
made  on  the  church  of  St  Urbain,  will  be  needed  in  order  to 
enable  our  descendants  to  regard  the  designers  of  that,  as 
only  primitive  apes. 

175.  I return  for  a moment  to  my  gable  at  Assisi.  You 
see  that  the  crest  of  the  waves  at  the  top  form  a rude  likeness 
of  a fleur-de-lys.  There  is,  however,  in  this  form  no  real  inten- 
tion of  imitating  a flower,  any  more  than  in  the  meeting  of 
the  tails  of  these  two  Etruscan  giiffins.  The  notable  circum- 
stance in  this  piece  of  Gothic  is  its  advanced  form  of  crocket, 


MARBLE  RAMPANT. 


321 


and  its  prominent  foliation,  with  nothing  in  the  least  ap- 
proaching to  floral  ornament. 

176.  And  now,  observe  this  very  curious  fact  in  the  per- 
sonal character  of  two  contemporary  artists.  See  the  use  of 
my  manually  graspable  flag.  Here  is  John  of  Pisa, — here 
Giotto.  They  are  contemporary  for  twenty  years  ; — but  these 
are  the  prime  of  Giotto’s  life,  and  the  last  of  John’s  life  : vir- 
tually, Giotto  is  the  later  workman  by  full  twenty  years. 

But  Giotto  always  uses  severe  geometrical  mouldings,  and 
disdains  all  luxuriance  of  leafage  to  set  off  interior  sculpture. 

John  of  Pisa  not  only  adopts  Gothic  tracery,  but  first  allows 
himself  enthusiastic  use  of  rampant  vegetation  ; — and  here  in 
the  fa§ade  of  Orvieto,  you  have  not  only  perfect  Gothic  in 
the  sentiment  of  Scripture  history,  but  such  luxurious  ivy 
ornamentation  as  you  cannot  afterwards  match  for  two  hun- 
dred years.  Nay,  you  can  scarcely  match  it  then — for  grace 
of  line,  only  in  the  richest  flamboyant  of  France. 

177.  Now  this  fact  would  set  you,  if  you  looked  at  art  from 
its  sesthetic  side  only,  at  once  to  find  out  what  German  artists 
had  taught  Giovanni  Pisano.  There  were  Germans  teaching 
him, — some  teaching  him  many  things  ; and  the  intense  con- 
ceit of  the  modern  German  artist  imagines  them  to  have 
taught  him  all  things. 

But  he  learnt  his  luxuriance,  and  Giotto  his  severity,  in  an- 
other school.  The  quality  in  both  is  Greek  ; and  altogether 
moral.  The  grace  and  the  redundance  of  Giovanni  are  the 
first  strong  manifestation  of  those  characters  in  the  Italian 
mind  which  culminate  in  the  Madonnas  of  Luini  and  the  ara- 
besques of  Raphael.  The  severity  of  Giotto  belongs  to  him, 
on  the  contrary,  not  only  as  one  of  the  strongest  practical 
men  who  ever  lived  on  this  solid  earth,  but  as  the  purest  and 
firmest  reformer  of  the  discipline  of  the  Christian  Church,  of 
whose  writings  any  remains  exist. 

178.  Of  whose  writings,  I say  ; and  you  look  up,  as  doubt- 
ful that  he  has  left  any.  Hieroglyphics,  then,  let  me  say  in- 
stead ; or,  more  accurately  still,  hierographics.  St.  Francis, 
in  what  he  wrote  and  said,  taught  much  that  was  false.  But 
Giotto,  his  true  disciple,  nothing  but  what  was  true.  And 


322 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


where  he  uses  an  arabesque  of  foliage,  depend  upon  it  it  will 
be  to  purpose — not  redundant.  I return  for  the  time  to  our 
soft  and  luxuriant  John  of  Pisa. 

179.  Soft,  but  with  no  unmanly  softness ; luxuriant,  but 
with  no  unmannered  luxury.  To  him  you  owe  as  to  their 
first  sire  in  art,  the  grace  of  Ghiberti,  the  tenderness  of 
Raphael,  the  awe  of  Michael  Angelo.  Second-rate  qualities 
in  all  the  three,  but  precious  in  their  kind,  and  learned,  as 
you  shall  see,  essentially  from  this  man.  Second-rate  he  also, 
but  with  most  notable  gifts  of  this  inferior  kind.  He  is  the 
Canova  of  the  thirteenth  century ; but  the  Canova  of  the 
thirteenth,  remember,  was  necessarily  a very  different  person 
from  the  Canova  of  the  eighteenth. 

The  Canova  of  the  eighteenth  century  mimicked  Greek 
grace  for  the  delight  of  modern  revolutionary  sensualists. 
The  Canova  of  the  thirteenth  century  brought  living  Gothic 
truth  into  the  living  faith  of  his  own  time. 

Greek  truth,  and  Gothic  ‘liberty,’ — in  that  noble  sense  of 
the  word,  derived  from  the  Latin  ‘liber,’  of  which  I have  al- 
ready spoken,  and  which  in  my  next  lecture  I will  endeavour 
completely  to  develope.  Meanwhile  let  me  show  you,  as  far 
as  I can,  the  architecture  itself  about  which  these  subtle  ques- 
tions arise. 

180.  Here  are  five  frames,  containing  the  best  representa- 
tions I can  get  for  you  of  the  fa9ade  of  the  cathedral  of  Or- 
vieto.  I must  remind  you,  before  I let  you  look  at  them,  of 
the  reason  why  that  cathedral  was  built ; for  I have  at  last  got 
to  the  end  of  the  parenthesis  which  began  in  my  second  lect- 
ure, on  the  occasion  of  our  hearing  that  John  of  Pisa  was 
sent  for  to  Perugia,  to  carve  the  tomb  of  Pope  Urban  IV.  ; 
and  we  must  now  know  who  this  Pope  was. 

181.  He  was  a Frenchman,  born  at  that  Troyes,  in  Cham* 
pagne,  which  I gave  you  as  the  centre  of  French  architect- 
ural skill,  and  Royalist  character.  He  was  born  in  the  low- 
est class  of  the  people,  rose  like  Wolsey ; became  Bishop  of 
Verdun  ; then,  Patriarch  of  Jerusalem  ; returned  in  the  year 
1261,  from  his  Patriarchate,  to  solicit  the  aid  of  the  then 
Pope,  Alexander  IV.,  against  the  Saracen.  I do  not  know  on 


MARBLE  RAMPANT. 


323 


what  day  he  arrived  in  Rome  ; but  on  the  25th  of  May,  Alex- 
ander died,  and  the  Cardinals,  after  three  months’  disputing, 
elected  the  suppliant  Patriarch  to  be  Pope  himself. 

182.  A man  with  all  the  fire  of  France  in  him,  all  the  faith, 
and  all  the  insolence  ; incapable  of  doubting  a single  article 
of  his  creed,  or  relaxing  one  tittle  of  his  authority  ; destitute 
alike  of  reason  and  of  pity  ; and  absolutely  merciless  either 
to  an  infidel,  or  an  enemy.  The  young  Prince  Manfred,  bas- 
tard son  of  Frederick  II.,  now  representing  the  main  power 
of  the  German  empire,  was  both ; and  against  him  the  Pope 
brought  into  Italy  a religious  French  knight,  of  character  ab- 
solutely like  his  own,  Charles  of  Anjou. 

183.  The  young  Manfred,  now  about  twenty  years  old,  was 
as  good  a soldier  as  he  was  a bad  Christian  ; and  there  was  no 
safety  for  Urban  at  Rome.  The  Pope  seated  himself  on  a 
worthy  throne  for  a thirteenth-century  St.  Peter.  Fancy  the 
rock  of  Edinburgh  Castle,  as  steep  on  all  sides  as  it  is  to  the 
west ; and  as  long  as  the  Old  Town  ; and  you  have  the  rock 
of  Orvieto. 

184.  Here,  enthroned  against  the  gates  of  hell,  in  unassail- 
able fortitude,  and  unfaltering  faith,  sat  Urban  ; the  righteous- 
ness of  his  cause  presently  to  be  avouched  by  miracle,  no- 
tablest  among  those  of  the  Roman  Church.  Twelve  miles 
east  of  his  rock,  beyond  the  range  of  low  Apennine,  shone  the 
quiet  lake,  the  Loch  Leven  of  Italy,  from  whose  island  the 
daughter  of  Theodoric  needed  not  to  escape — Fate  seeking 
her  there  ; and  in  a little  chapel  on  its  shore  a Bohemian 
priest,  infected  with  Northern  infidelity,  was  brought  back  to 
his  allegiance  by  seeing  the  blood  drop  from  the  wafer  in  his 
hand.  And  the  Catholic  Church  recorded  this  heavenly  testi- 
mony to  her  chief  mystery,  in  the  Festa  of  the  Corpus  Domini, 
and  the  Fabric  of  Orvieto. 

185.  And  sending  was  made  for  John,  and  for  all  good  la- 
bourers in  marble  ; but  Urban  never  saw  a stone  of  the  great 
cathedral  laid.  His  citation  of  Manfred  to  appear  in  his  pres- 
ence to  answer  for  his  heresy,  was  fixed  against  the  posts  of 
the  doors  of  the  old  Duomo.  But  Urban  had  dug  the  foun- 
dation of  the  pile  to  purpose,  and  when  he  died  at  Perugia, 


324 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


still  breathed,  from  his  grave,  calamity  to  Manfred,  and  made 
from  it  glory  to  the  Church.  He  had  secured  the  election  of 
a French  successor ; from  the  rock  of  Orvieto  the  spirit  of 
Urban  led  the  French  chivalry,  when  Charles  of  Anjou  saw 
the  day  of  battle  come,  so  long  desired.  Manfred’s  Saracens, 
with  their  arrows,  broke  his  first  line  ; the  Pope’s  legate 
blessed  the  second,  and  gave  them  absolution  of  all  their  sins, 
for  their  service  to  the  Church.  They  charged  for  Orvieto 
with  their  old  cry  of  ‘ Mont-Joie,  Chevaliers!’  and  before 
night,  while  Urban  lay  sleeping  in  his  carved  tomb  at  Perugia, 
the  body  of  Manfred  lay  only  recognizable  by  those  who  loved 
him,  naked  among  the  slain. 

186.  Time  wore  on  and  on.  The  Suabian  power  ceased  in 
Italy  ; between  white  and  red  there  was  now  no  more  con- 
test; — the  matron  of  the  Church,  scarlet-robed,  reigned, 
ruthless,  on  her  seven  hills.  Time  wore  on  ; and,  a hundred 
years  later,  now  no  more  the  power  of  the  kings,  but  the 
power  of  the  people, — rose  against  her.  St.  Michael,  from 
the  corn  market, — Or  San  Michele, — the  commercial  strength 
of  Florence,  on  a question  of  free  trade  in  com.  And  note, 
for  a little  bye  piece  of  botany,  that  in  Val  d’Arno  lilies  grow 
among  the  com  instead  of  poppies.  The  purple  gladiolus 
glows  through  all  its  green  fields  in  early  spring. 

187.  A question  of  free  trade  in  corn,  then,  arose  between 
Florence  and  Pome.  The  Pope’s  legate  in  Bologna  stopped 
the  supply  of  polenta,  the  Florentines  depending  on  that  to 
eat  with  their  own  oil.  Very  wicked,  you  think,  of  the  Pope’s 
legate,  acting  thus  against  quasi-Protestant  Florence  ? Yes  ; 
just  as  wicked  as  the — not  quasi-Protestants — but  intensely 
positive  Protestants,  of  Zurich,  who  tried  to  convert  the 
Catholic  forest-cantons  by  refusing  them  salt.  Christendom 
has  been  greatly  troubled  about  bread  and  salt : the  then 
Protestant  Pope,  Zuinglius,  was  killed  at  the  battle  of  Keppel, 
and  the  Catholic  cantons  therefore  remain  Catholic  to  this 
day ; while  the  consequences  of  this  piece  of  protectionist 
economy  at  Bologna  are  equally  interesting  and  direct 

188.  The  legate  of  Bologna,  not  content  with  stopping  the 
supplies  of  maize  to  Florence,  sent  our  own  John  Hawkwood, 


MARBLE  RAMPANT. 


325 


on  the  24th  June,  1375,  to  burn  all  the  maize  the  Florentines 
had  got  growing  ; and  the  abbot  of  Montemaggiore  sent  a 
troop  of  Perugian  religious  gentlemen-riders  to  ravage  simi- 
larly the  territory  of  Siena.  Whereupon,  at  Florence,  the 
Gonfalonier  of  Justice,  Aloesio  Aldobrandini,  rose  in  the 
Council  of  Ancients  and  proposed,  as  an  enterprise  worthy  of 
Florentine  generosity,  the  freedom  of  all  the  peoples  who 
groaned  under  the  tyranny  of  the  Church.  And  Florence, 
Siena,  Pisa,  Lucca,  and  Arezzo, — all  the  great  cities  of  Etruria, 
the  root  of  religion  in  Italy, — joined  against  the  tyranny  of 
religion.  Strangely,  this  Etrurian  league  is  not  now  to  restore 
Tarquin  to  Rome,  but  to  drive  the  Roman  Tarquin  into  exile. 
The  story  of  Lucretia  had  been  repeated  in  Perugia  ; but  the 
Umbrian  Lucretia  had  died,  not  by  suicide,  but  by  falling  on 
the  pavement  from  the  window  through  which  she  tried  to 
escape.  And  the  Umbrian  Sextus  was  the  Abbot  of  Monte- 
maggiore’s  nephew. 

189.  Florence  raised  her  fleur-de-lys  standard  : and,  in  ten 
days,  eighty  cities  of  Romagna  were  free,  out  of  the  number 
of  whose  names  I will  read  you  only  these — Urbino,  Foligno, 
Spoleto,  Narni,  Camerino,  Toscanella,  Perugia,  Orvieto. 

Amd  while  the  wind  and  the  rain  still  beat  the  body  of 
Manfred,  by  the  shores  of  the  Rio  Yerde,  the  body  of  Pope 
Urban  was  torn  from  its  tomb,  and  not  one  stone  of  the 
carved  work  thereof  left  upon  another. 

190.  I will  only  ask  you  to-day  to  notice  farther  that  the 
Captain  of  Florence,  in  this  war,  was  a 4 Conrad  of  Suabia,’ 
and  that  she  gave  him,  beside  her  own  flag,  one  with  only  the 
word  ‘ Libertas  ’ inscribed  on  it. 

I told  you  that  the  first  stroke  of  the  bell  on  the  Tower  of 
the  Lion  began  the  carillon  for  European  civil  and  religious 
liberty.  But  perhaps,  even  in  the  fourteenth  century,  Flor- 
ence did  not  understand,  by  that  word,  altogether  the  same 
policy  which  is  now  preached  in  France,  Italy,  and  England. 

What  she  did  understand  by  it,  we  will  try  to  ascertain  in 
the  course  of  next  lecture. 


326 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


LECTURE  m 

FRANCHISE. 

191.  In  my  first  lecture  of  this  course,  you  remember  that 
I showed  you  the  Lion  of  St.  Mark’s  with  Niccola  Pisano’s, 
calling  the  one  an  evangelical-preacher  lion,  and  the  other  a 
real,  and  naturally  affectionate,  lioness. 

And  the  one  I showed  you  as  Byzantine,  the  other  as  Gothic. 

So  that  I thus  called  the  Greek  art  pious,  and  the  Gothic 
profane. 

Whereas  in  nearly  all  our  ordinary  modes  of  thought,  and 
in  all  my  own  general  references  to  either  art,  we  assume 
Greek  or  classic  work  to  be  profane,  and  Gothic,  pious,  or 
religious. 

192.  Very  short  reflection,  if  steady  and  clear,  will  both  show 
you  how  confused  our  ideas  are  usually  on  this  subject,  and 
how  definite  they  may  within  certain  limits  become. 

First  of  all,  don’t  confuse  piety  with  Christianity.  There 
are  pious  Greeks  and  impious  Greeks  ; pious  Turks  and  im- 
pious Turks  ; pious  Christians  and  impious  Christians  ; pious 
modem  infidels  and  impious  modem  infidels.  In  case  you  do 
not  quite  know  what  piety  really  means,  we  will  try  to  know 
better  in  next  lecture  ; for  the  present,  understand  that  I mean 
distinctly  to  call  Greek  art,  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word, 
pious,  and  Gothic,  as  opposed  to  it,  profane. 

193.  But  when  I oppose  these  two  words,  Gothic  and  Greek, 
don’t  run  away  with  the  notion  that  I necessarily  mean  to  op- 
pose Christian  and  Greek.  You  must  not  confuse  Gothic  blood 
in  a man’s  veins,  with  Christian  feeling  in  a man’s  breast. 
There  are  unconverted  and  converted  Goths  ; unconverted  and 
converted  Greeks.  The  Greek  and  Gothic  temper  is  equally 
opposed,  where  the  name  of  Christ  has  never  been  uttered  by 
either,  or  when  every  other  name  is  equally  detested  by  both. 

I want  you  to-day  to  examine  with  me  that  essential  differ. 


FRANCHISE. 


327 


ence  between  Greek  and  Gothic  temper,  irrespective  of  creed, 
to  which  I have  referred  in  my  preface  to  the  last  edition  of 
the  “Stones  of  Venice, ” saying  that  the  Byzantines  gave  law 
to  Norman  license.  And  I must  therefore  ask  your  patience 
while  I clear  your  minds  from  some  too  prevalent  errors  as  to 
the  meaning  of  those  two  words,  law  and  license. 

194.  There  is  perhaps  no  more  curious  proof  of  the  disor- 
der which  impatient  and  impertinent  science  is  introducing 
into  classical  thought  and  language,  than  the  title  chosen  by 
the  Duke  of  Argyll  for  his  interesting  study  of  Natural  His- 
tory— * The  Reign  of  Law.’  Law  cannot  reign.  If  a natural 
law,  it  admits  no  disobedience,  and  has  nothing  to  put  right. 
If  a human  one,  it  can  compel  no  obedience,  and  has  no  power 
to  prevent  wrong.  A king  only  can  reign  ; — a person,  that  is  to 
say,  who,  conscious  of  natural  law,  enforces  human  law  so  far 
as  it  is  just. 

195.  Kinghood  is  equally  necessary  in  Greek  dynasty,  and 
in  Gothic.  Theseus  is  every  inch  a king,  as  well  as  Edward 
HI.  But  the  laws  which  they  have  to  enforce  on  them  own 
and  their  companions’  humanity  are  opposed  to  each  other  as 
much  as  their  dispositions  are. 

The  function  of  a Greek  king  was  to  enforce  labour. 

That  of  a Gothic  king,  to  restrain  rage. 

The  laws  of  Greece  determine  the  wise  methods  of  labour ; 
and  the  laws  of  France  determine  the  wise  restraints  of  passion. 

For  the  sins  of  Greece  are  in  Indolence,  and  its  pleasures  ; 
and  the  sins  of  France  are  in  fury,  and  its  pleasures. 

196.  You  are  now  again  surprised,  probably,  at  hearing  me 
oppose  France  typically  to  Greece.  More  strictly,  I might  op- 
pose only  a part  of  France, — Normandy.  But  it  is  better  to 
say,  France,*  as  embracing  the  seat  of  the  established  Norman 
power  in  the  Island  of  our  Lady  ; and  the  province  in  which  it 
was  crowned, — Champagne. 

France  is  everlastingly,  by  birth,  name,  and  nature,  the 
country  of  the  Franks,  or  free  persons  ; and  the  first  source  of 

“Normandie,  la  tranche,”  — “ France,  la  solue  ; ” (chanson  de  Ro- 
land). One  of  my  good  pupils  referred  me  to  this  ancient  and  glorious 
French  song. 


328 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


European  frankness,  or  franchise.  The  Latin  for  franchise  ia 
libertas.  But  the  modern  or  Cockney-English  word  liberty, — 
Mr.  John  Stuart  Mill’s, — is  not  the  equivalent  of  libertas  ; and 
the  modern  or  Cockney-French  word  liberte. — M.  Victor 
Hugo’s, — is  not  the  equivalent  of  franchise. 

197.  The  Latin  for  franchise,  I have  said,  is  libertas ; the 
Greek  is  eXevOepLa.  In  the  thoughts  of  all  three  nations, 
the  idea  is  precisely  the  same,  and  the  word  used  for  the  idea 
by  each  nation  therefore  accurately  translates  the  word  of  the 
other  : ZXevOepia — libertas — franchise — reciprocally  translate 
each  other.  Leonidas  is  characteristically  iXcvOepos  among 
Greeks  ; Publicola,  characteristically  liber,  among  Bomans  ; 
Edward  HI.  and  the  Black  Prince,  characteristically  frank 
among  French.  And  that  common  idea,  which  the  words  ex- 
press, as  all  the  careful  scholars  among  you  will  know,  is,  with 
all  the  three  nations,  mainly  of  deliverance  from  the  slavery  of 
passion.  To  be  ikevOepos,  liber,  or  franc,  is  first  to  have 
learned  how  to  rule  our  own  passions  ; and  then,  certain  that 
our  own  conduct  is  right,  to  persist  in  that  conduct  against 
all  resistance,  whether  of  counter-opinion,  counter-pain,  or 
counter-pleasure.  To  be  defiant  alike  of  the  mob’s  thought, 
of  the  adversary’s  threat,  and  the  harlot’s  temptation, — this  is 
in  the  meaning  of  every  great  nation  to  be  free  ; and  the  one 
condition  upon  which  that  freedom  can  be  obtained  is  pro- 
nounced to  you  in  a single  verse  of  the  119th  Psalm,  “ I will 
walk  at  liberty,  for  I seek  Thy  precepts.” 

198.  Thy  precepts  : — Law,  observe,  being  dominant  over  the 
Gothic  as  over  the  Greek  king,  but  a quite  different  law. 
Edward  HL  feeling  no  anger  against  the  Sieur  de  Ribaumont, 
and  crowning  him  with  his  own  pearl  chaplet,  is  obeying  the 
law  of  love,  restraining  anger ; but  Theseus,  slaying  the 
Minotaur,  is  obeying  the  law  of  justice,  and  enforcing 
anger. 

The  one  is  acting  under  the  law  of  the  charity,  or 
grace  of  God  ; the  other  under  the  law  of  His  judgment. 
The  two  together  fulfil  His  /cpto-is  and  ayairq. 

199.  Therefore  the  Greek  dynasties  are  finally  expressed 
in  the  kinghoods  of  Minos,  Rhadamanthus,  and  Aeacus,  who 


FRANCHISE. 


329 


judge  infallibly,  and  divide  arithmetically.  But  the  dynasty 
of  the  Gothic  king  is  in  equity  and  compassion,  and  his  arith- 
metic is  in  largesse, 

“ Whose  moste  joy  was,  I wis, 

When  that  she  gave,  and  said,  Have  this.” 

So  that,  to  put  it  in  shortest  terms  of  all,  Greek  law  is  of 
Stasy,  and  Gothic  of  Ec-stasy  ; there  is  no  limit  to  the  freedom 
of  the  Gothic  hand  or  heart,  and  the  children  are  most  in  the 
delight  and  the  glory  of  liberty  when  they  most  seek  their 
Father’s  precepts. 

200.  The  two  lines  I have  just  quoted  are,  as  you  probably 
remember,  from  Chaucer’s  translation  of  the  French  Romance 
of  the  Bose,  out  of  which  I before  quoted  to  you  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  virtue  of  Debonnairete.  Now  that  Debonnairete 
of  the  Painted  Chamber  of  Westminster  is  the  typical  figure 
used  by  the  French  sculptors  and  painters  for  ‘franchise/ 
frankness,  or  Frenchness  ; but  in  the  Painted  Chamber, 
Debonnairete,  high  breeding,  ‘out  of  goodnestedness,’  or 
gentleness,  is  used,  as  an  English  king’s  English,  of  the  Norman 
franchise.  Here,  then,  is  our  own  royalty, — let  us  call  it 
Englishness,  the  grace  of  our  proper  kinghood  ; — and  here  is 
French  royalty,  the  grace  of  French  kinghood — Frenchness, 
rudely  but  sufficiently  drawn  by  M.  Didron  from  the  porch 
of  Chartres.  She  has  the  crown  of  fleur-de-lys,  and  William 
the  Norman’s  shield. 

201.  Now  this  grace  of  high  birth,  the  grace  of  his  or  her 
Most  Gracious  Majesty,  has  her  name  at  Chartres  written 
beside  her,  in  Latin.  Had  it  been  in  Greek,  it  would  have 
been  eXevOepc a.  Being  in  Latin,  what  do  you  think  it  must  be 
necessarily  ? — Of  course,  Libertas.  Now  M.  Didron  is  quite 
the  best  writer  on  art  that  I know, — full  of  sense  and  intel- 
ligence ; but  of  course,  as  a modern  Frenchman, — one  of  a 
nation  for  whom  the  Latin  and  Gothic  ideas  of  libertas  have 
entirely  vanished, — he  is  not  on  his  guard  against  the  trap 
here  laid  for  him.  He  looks  at  the  word  libertas  through  his 
spectacles  ; — can’t  understand,  being  a thoroughly  good  anti- 


330 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


quary,*  how  such  a virtue,  or  privilege,  could  honestly  be 
carved  with  approval  in  the  twelfth  century  ; — rubs  his  spec- 
tacles ; rubs  the  inscription,  to  make  sure  of  its  every  letter  ; 
stamps  it,  to  make  surer  still ; — and  at  last,  though  in  a 
greatly  bewildered  state  of  mind,  remains  convinced  that  here 
is  a sculpture  of  ‘ La  Liberte  * in  the  twelfth  century.  “C’est 
bien  la  liberte  ! ” “On  lit  parfaitement  libertas.” 

202.  Not  so,  my  good  M.  Didron! — a very  different  per- 
sonage, this  ; of  whom  more,  presently,  though  the  letters  of 
her  name  are  indeed  so  plainly,  ‘ Libertas,  at  non  liberalitas,’ 
liberalitas  being  the  Latin  for  largesse,  not  for  franchise. 

This,  then,  is  the  opposition  between  the  Greek  and  Gothic 
dynasties,  in  their  passionate  or  vital  nature  ; in  the  animal 
and  inbred  part  of  them  ; — Classic  and  romantic,  Static  and  ex- 
static. But  now,  what  opposition  is  there  between  their 
divine  natures  ? Between  Theseus  and  Edward  U[.,  as  war- 
riors, we  now  know  the  difference  ; but  between  Theseus  and 
Edward  m.,  as  theologians  ; as  dreaming  and  discerning 
creatures,  as  didactic  kings, — engraving  letters  with  the  point 
of  the  sword,  instead  of  thrusting  men  through  with  it, — 
changing  the  club  into  the  ferula,  and  becoming  schoolmasters 
as  well  as  kings  ; what  is,  thus,  the  difference  between  them  ? 

Theologians  I called  them.  Philologians  would  be  a better 
word, — lovers  of  the  Aoyos,  or  Word,  by  which  the  heavens 
and  earth  were  made.  What  logos,  about  this  Logos,  have 
they  learned,  or  can  they  teach  ? 

203.  I showed  you,  in  my  first  lecture,  the  Byzantine  Greek 
lion,  as  descended  by  true  unblemished  line  from  the  Nemean 
Greek  ; but  with  this  difference : Heracles  kills  the  beast, 
and  makes  a helmet  and  cloak  of  his  skin  ; the  Greek  St. 
Mark  converts  the  beast,  and  makes  an  evangelist  of  him. 

Is  not  that  a greater  difference,  think  you,  than  one  of  mere 
decadence  ? 

This  ‘ maniera  goffa  e sproporzionata  ’ of  Vasari  is  not,  then, 
merely  the  wasting  away  of  former  leonine  strength  into  thin 

* Historical  antiquary,  not  art-antiquary  I must  limitedly  say,  how- 
ever. He  has  made  a grotesque  mess  of  his  account  of  the  Ducal  Palace 
of  Venice,  through  his  ignorance  of  the  technical  characters  of  sculpture. 


FRANCHISE. 


331 


rigidities  of  death  ? There  is  another  change  going  on  at  the 
same  time, — body  perhaps  subjecting  itself  to  spirit. 

I will  not  teaze  you  with  farther  questions.  The  facts  are 
simple  enough.  Theseus  and  Heracles  have  their  religion, 
sincere  and  sufficient, — a religion  of  lion-killers,  minotaur- 
killers,  very  curious  and  rude ; Eleusinian  mystery  mingled 
in  it,  inscrutable  to  us  now, — partly  always  so,  even  to  them. 

204.  Well ; the  Greek  nation,  in  process  of  time,  loses  its 
manliness, — becomes  Graeculus  instead  of  Greek.  But 
though  effeminate  and  feeble,  it  inherits  all  the  subtlety  of  its 
art,  all  the  cunning  of  its  mystery  ; and  it  is  converted  to  a 
more  spiritual  religion.  Nor  is  it  altogether  degraded,  even 
by  the  diminution  of  its  animal  energy.  Certain  spiritual 
phenomena  are  possible  to  the  weak,  which  are  hidden  from 
the  strong  ; — nay,  the  monk  may,  in  his  order  of  being,  pos- 
sess strength  denied  to  the  warrior.  Is  it  altogether,  think 
you,  by  blundering,  or  by  disproportion  in  intellect  or  in 
body,  that  Theseus  becomes  St.  Athanase  ? For  that  is  the 
kind  of  change  which  takes  place,  from  the  days  of  the  great 
King  of  Athens,  to  those  of  the  great  Bishop  of  Alexandria, 
in  the  thought  and  theology,  or,  summarily,  in  the  spirit  of 
the  Greek. 

Now  we  have  learned  indeed  the  difference  between  the 
Gothic  knight  and  the  Greek  knight ; but  what  will  be  the 
difference  between  the  Gothic  saint  and  Greek  saint  ? 

Franchise  of  body  against  constancy  of  body. 

Franchise  of  thought,  then,  against  constancy  of  thought. 

Edward  HI.  against  Theseus. 

And  the  Frank  of  Assisi  against  St.  Athanase. 

205,  Utter  franchise,  utter  gentleness  in  theological  thought. 
Instead  of,  ‘ This  is  the  faith,  which  except  a man  believe  faith- 
fully, he  cannot  be  saved,’  ‘ This  is  the  love,  which  if  a bird 
or  an  insect  keep  faithfully,  it  shall  be  saved.’ 

Gentlemen,  you  have  at  present  arrived  at  a phase  of  nat- 
ural science  in  which,  rejecting  alike  the  theology  of  the  Byzan- 
tine, and  the  affection  of  the  Frank,  you  can  only  contemplate 
a bird  as  flying  under  the  reign  of  law,  and  a cricket  as  sing- 
ing under  the  compulsion  of  caloric. 


332 


VAL  D'ABNO. 


I do  not  know  whether  you  yet  feel  that  the  position  of 
your  boat  on  the  river  also  depends  entirely  on  the  reign  of 
law,  or  whether,  as  your  churches  and  concert-rooms  are 
privileged  in  the  possession  of  organs  blown  by  steam,  you 
are  learning  yourselves  to  sing  by  gas,  and  expect  the  Dies 
Irae  to  be  announced  by  a steam-trumpet.  But  I can  very 
positively  assure  you  that,  in  my  poor  domain  of  imitative  art, 
not  all  the  mechanical  or  gaseous  forces  of  the  world,  nor  all 
the  laws  of  the  universe,  will  enable  you  either  to  see  a colour, 
or  draw  a line,  without  that  singular  force  anciently  called  the 
soul,  which  it  was  the  function  of  the  Greek  to  discipline  in 
the  duty  of  the  servants  of  God,  and  of  the  Goth  to  lead  into 
the  liberty  of  His  children. 

206.  But  in  one  respect  I wish  you  were  more  conscious  of 
the  existence  of  law  than  you  appear  to  be.  The  difference 
which  I have  pointed  out  to  you  as  existing  between  these 
great  nations,  exists  also  between  two  orders  of  intelligence 
among  men,  of  which  the  one  is  usually  called  Classic,  the 
other  Romantic.  Without  entering  into  any  of  the  fine  dis- 
tinctions between  these  two  sects,  this  broad  one  is  to  be  ob- 
served as  constant : that  the  writers  and  painters  of  the  Clas- 
sic school  set  down  nothing  but  what  is  known  to  be  true, 
and  set  it  down  in  the  perfectest  manner  possible  in  their 
way,  and  are  thenceforward  authorities  from  whom  there  is 
no  appeal.  Romantic  writers  and  painters,  on  the  contrary, 
express  themselves  under  the  impulse  of  passions  which  may 
indeed  lead  them  to  the  discovery  of  new  truths,  or  to  the 
more  delightful  arrangement  or  presentment  of  things  already 
known : but  their  work,  however  brilliant  or  lovely,  remains 
imperfect,  and  without  authority.  It  is  not  possible,  of  course, 
to  separate  these  two  orders  of  men  trenchantly  : a classic 
writer  may  sometimes,  whatever  his  care,  admit  an  error,  and 
a romantic  one  may  reach  perfection  through  enthusiasm. 
But,  practically,  you  may  separate  the  two  for  your  study  and 
your  education  ; and,  during  your  youth,  the  business  of  us 
your  masters  is  to  enforce  on  you  the  reading,  for  school 
work,  only  of  classical  books  : and  to  see  that  your  minds  are 
both  informed  of  the  indisputable  facts  they  contain,  and  ac- 


FRANCHISE. 


333 


customed  to  act  with  the  infallible  accuracy  of  which  they  set 
the  example. 

207.  I have  not  time  to  make  the  calculation,  but  I suppose 
that  the  daily  literature  by  which  we  now  are  principally 
nourished,  is  so  large  in  issue  that  though  St.  John’s  “ even 
the  world  itself  could  not  contain  the  books  which  should  be 
written  ” may  be  still  hyperbole,  it  is  nevertheless  literally 
true  that  the  world  might  be  wrapped  in  the  books  which  are 
written  ; and  that  the  sheets  of  paper  covered  with  type  on 
any  given  subject,  interesting  to  the  modern  mind,  (say  the 
prospects  of  the  Claimant,)  issued  in  the  form  of  English 
morning  papers  during  a single  year,  would  be  enough  liter- 
ally to  pack  the  world  in. 

208.  Now  I will  read  you  fifty-two  lines  of  a classical  author, 
which,  once  well  read  and  understood,  contain  more  truth 
than  has  been  told  you  all  this  year  by  this  whole  globe’s 
compass  of  print. 

Fifty-two  lines,  of  which  you  will  recognize  some  as  hack- 
neyed, and  see  little  to  admire  in  others.  But  it  is  not  pos- 
sible to  put  the  statements  they  contain  into  better  English, 
nor  to  invalidate  one  syllable  of  the  statements  they  contain.* 

209.  Even  those,  and  there  may  be  many  here,  who  would 
dispute  the  truth  of  the  passage,  will  admit  its  exquisite  dis- 
tinctness and  construction.  If  it  be  untrue,  that  is  merely 
because  I have  not  been  taught  by  my  modern  education  to 
recognize  a classical  author  ; but  whatever  my  mistakes,  or 
yours,  may  be,  there  are  certain  truths  long  known  to  all 
rational  men,  and  indisputable.  You  may  add  to  them,  but 
you  cannot  diminish  them.  And  it  is  the  business  of  a Uni- 
versity to  determine  what  books  of  this  kind  exist,  and  to  en- 
force the  understanding  of  them. 

210.  The  classical  and  romantic  arts  which  we  have  now 
under  examination  therefore  consist, — the  first,  in  that  which 
represented,  under  whatever  symbols,  truths  respecting  the 
history  of  men,  which  it  is  proper  that  all  should  know  ; 
while  the  second  owes  its  interest  to  passionate  impulse  or 


* ‘ The  Deserted  Village,’  line  251  to  302. 


334 


VAL  D ARNO . 


incident.  This  distinction  holds  in  all  ages,  but  the  distino. 
tion  between  the  franchise  of  Northern,  and  the  constancy  of 
Byzantine,  art,  depends  partly  on  the  unsystematic  play  of 
emotion  in  the  one,  and  the  appointed  sequence  of  known 
fact  or  determined  judgment  in  the  other. 

You  will  find  in  the  beginning  of  M.  Didron’s  book,  already 
quoted,  an  admirable  analysis  of  what  may  be  called  the 
classic  sequence  of  Christian  theology,  as  written  in  the 
sculpture  of  the  Cathedral  of  Chartres.  You  will  find  in  the 
treatment  of  the  fa§ade  of  Orvieto  the  beginning  of  the  de- 
velopment of  passionate  romance, — the  one  being  grave  ser- 
mon writing  ; the  other,  cheerful  romance  or  novel  writing  : 
so  that  the  one  requires  you  to  think,  the  other  only  to  feel 
or  perceive  ; the  one  is  always  a parable  with  a meaning,  the 
other  only  a story  with  an  impression. 

211.  And  here  I get  at  a result  concerning  Greek  art, 
which  is  very  sweeping  and  wide  indeed.  That  it  is  all  par- 
able, but  Gothic,  as  distinct  from  it,  literal.  So  absolutely 
does  this  hold,  that  it  reaches  down  to  our  modem  school  of 
landscape.  You  know  I have  always  told  you  Turner  be- 
longed to  the  Greek  school  Precisely  as  the  stream  of  blood 
coming  from  under  the  throne  of  judgment  in  the  Byzantine 
mosaic  of  Torcello  is  a sign  of  condemnation,  his  scarlet  clouds 
are  used  by  Turner  as  a sign  of  death  ; and  just  as  on  an 
Egyptian  tomb  the  genius  of  death  lays  the  sun  down  behind 
the  horizon,  so  in  his  Cephalus  and  Procris,  the  last  rays  of 
the  sun  withdraw  from  the  forest  as  the  nymph  expires. 

And  yet,  observe,  both  the  classic  and  romantic  teaching 
may  be  equally  earnest,  only  different  in  manner.  But  from 
classic  art,  unless  you  understand  it,  you  may  get  nothing ; 
from  romantic  art,  even  if  you  don’t  understand  it,  you  get 
at  least  delight. 

212.  I cannot  show  the  difference  more  completely  or  fort- 
unately than  by  comparing  Sir  Walter  Scott’s  type  of  libertas, 
with  the  franchise  of  Chartres  Cathedral,  or  Debonnairete  of 
the  Painted  Chamber. 

At  Chartres,  and  Westminster,  the  high  birth  is  shown  by 
the  crown ; the  strong  bright  life  by  the  flowing  hair ; the 


FRANCHISE 


335 


fortitude  by  the  conqueror’s  shield ; and  the  truth  by  the 
bright  openness  of  the  face  : 

“ She  was  not  brown,  nor  dull  of  hue, 

But  white  as  snowc,  fallen  newe.” 

All  these  are  symbols,  which,  if  you  cannot  read,  the  image 
is  to  you  only  an  uninteresting  stiff  figure.  But  Sir  Walter’s 
Franchise,  Diana  Vernon,  interests  you  at  once  in  personal 
aspect  and  character.  She  is  no  symbol  to  you  ; but  if  you 
acquaint  yourself  with  her  perfectly,  you  find  her  utter  frank- 
ness, governed  by  a superb  self-command  ; her  spotless  truth, 
refined  by  tenderness  ; her  fiery  enthusiasm,  subdued  by  dig- 
nity ; and  her  fearless  liberty,  incapable  of  doing  wrong,  join- 
ing to  fulfil  to  you,  in  sight  and  presence,  what  the  Greek 
could  only  teach  by  signs. 

213.  I have  before  noticed — though  I am  not  sure  that  you 
have  yet  believed  my  statement  of  it — the  significance  of  Sir 
Walter’s  as  of  Shakspeare’s  names ; Diana  c Vernon,  semper 
viret,’  gives  you  the  conditions  of  purity  and  youthful  strength 
or  spring  which  imply  the  highest  state  of  libertas.  By  cor- 
ruption of  the  idea  of  purity,  you  get  the  modern  heroines  of 
London  Journal — or  perhaps  we  may  more  fitly  call  it  4 Cock- 
ney-daily ’ — literature.  You  have  one  of  them  in  perfection, 
for  instance,  in  Mr.  Charles  Beade’s  ‘ Griffith  Gaunt’ — “Lithe, 
and  vigorous,  and  one  with  her  great  white  gelding  ; ” and 
liable  to  be  entirely  changed  in  her  mind  about  the  destinies 
of  her  life  by  a quarter  of  an  hour’s  conversation  with  a gen- 
tleman unexpectedly  handsome  ; the  hero  also  being  a person 
who  looks  at  people  whom  he  dislikes,  with  eyes  “ like  a dog’s 
in  the  dark  ; ” and  both  hero  and  heroine  having  souls  and 
intellects  also  precisely  corresponding  to  those  of  a dog’s  in 
the  dark,  which  is  indeed  the  essential  picture  of  the  practical 
English  national  mind  at  this  moment, — happy  if  it  remains 
doggish, — Circe  not  usually  being  content  with  changing 
people  into  dogs  only.  For  the  Diana  Vernon  of  the  Greek 
is  Artemis  Laphria,  who  is  friendly  to  the  dog ; not  to  the 
swine.  Do  you  see,  by  the  way,  how  perfectly  the  image  is 
carried  out  by  Sir  Walter  in  putting  his  Diana  on  the  border 


336 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


country  ? “ Yonder  blue  hill  is  in  Scotland,”  she  says  to  her 

cousin, — not  in  the  least  thinking  less  of  him  for  having  been 
concerned,  it  may  be,  in  one  of  Hob  Roy’s  forays.  And  so 
gradually  you  get  the  idea  of  Norman  franchise  carried  out  in 
the  free-rider  or  free-booter  ; not  safe  from  degradation  on 
that  side  also  ; but  by  no  means  of  swinish  temper,  or  forag- 
ing, as  at  present  the  British  speculative  public,  only  with 
the  snout. 

214.  Finally,  in  the  most  soft  and  domestic  form  of  virtue, 
you  have  Wordsworth’s  ideal : 

‘ ‘ Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin  liberty.” 

The  distinction  between  these  northern  types  of  feminine 
virtue,  and  the  figures  of  Alcestis,  Antigone,  or  Iphigenia,  lies 
deep  in  the  spirit  of  the  art  of  either  country,  and  is  carried 
out  into  its  most  unimportant  details.  "We  shall  find  in  the 
central  art  of  Florence  at  once  the  thoughtfulness  of  Greece 
and  the  gladness  of  England,  associated  under  images  of 
monastic  severity  peculiar  to  herself. 

And  what  Diana  Vernon  is  to  a French  ballerine  dancing 
the  Cancan,  the  ‘ libertas  ’ of  Chartres  and  Westminster  is  to 
the  ‘ liberty’  of  M.  Victor  Hugo  and  Mr.  John  Stuart  Mill. 


LECTURE  IX. 

THE  TYRRHENE  SEA. 

215.  We  may  now  return  to  the  points  of  necessary  history, 
having  our  ideas  fixed  within  accurate  limits  as  to  the  mean- 
ing of  the  word  Liberty  ; and  as  to  the  relation  of  the  pas- 
sions which  separated  the  Guelph  and  Ghibelline  to  those  of 
our  own  days. 

The  Lombard  or  Guelph  league  consisted,  after  the  acces- 
sion of  Florence,  essentially  of  the  three  great  cities — Milan, 
Bologna,  and  Florence  ; the  Imperial  or  Ghibelline  league,  of 
Verona,  Pisa,  and  Siena.  Venice  and  Genoa,  both  nominally 
Guelph,  are  in  furious  contention  always  for  sea  empire 


THE  TYRRHENE  REA. 


337 


while  Pisa  and  Genoa  are  in  contention,  not  so  ranch  for 
empire,  as  honour.  Whether  the  trade  of  the  East  was  to  go 
up  the  Adriatic,  or  round  by  the  Gulf  of  Genoa,  was  essen- 
tially a mercantile  question  ; but  whether,  of  the  two  ports  in 
sight  of  each  other,  Pisa  or  Genoa  was  to  be  the  Queen  of  the 
Tyrrhene  Sea,  was  no  less  distinctly  a personal  one  than 
which  of  two  rival  beauties  shall  preside  at  a tournament. 

216.  This  personal  rivalry,  so  far  as  it  was  separated  from 
their  commercial  interests,  was  indeed  mortal,  but  not  malig- 
nant. The  quarrel  was  to  be  decided  to  the  death,  but  decided 
with  honour ; and  each  city  had  four  observers  permittedly 
resident  in  the  other,  to  give  account  of  all  that  was  done 
there  in  naval  invention  and  armament. 

217.  Observe,  also,  in  the  year  1251,  when  we  quitted  our 
history,  we  left  Florence  not  only  Guelph,  as  against  the  Im* 
perial  power,  (that  is  to  say,  the  body  of  her  knights  who 
favoured  the  Pope  and  Italians,  in  dominion  over  those  who 
favoured  Manfred  and  the  Germans),  but  we  left  her  also 
definitely  with  her  apron  thrown  over  her  shield  ; and  the 
tradesmen  and  craftsmen  in  authority  over  the  knight,  whether 
German  or  Italian,  Papal  or  Imperial. 

That  is  in  1251.  Now  in  these  last  two  lectures  I must  try 
to  mark  the  gist  of  the  history  of  the  next  thirty  years.  The 
Thirty  Years’  War,  this,  of  the  middle  ages,  infinitely  im- 
portant to  all  ages ; first  observe,  between  Guelph  and 
Ghibelline,  ending  in  the  humiliation  of  the  Ghibelline  ; and, 
secondly,  between  Shield  and  Apron,  or,  if  you  like  better, 
between  Spear  and  Hammer,  ending  in  the  breaking  of  the 
Spear. 

218.  The  first  decision  of  battle,  I say,  is  that  between 
Guelph  and  Ghibelline,  headed  by  two  men  of  precisely 
opposite  characters,  Charles  of  Anjou  and  Manfred  of  Suabia. 
That  I may  be  able  to  define  the  opposition  of  their  characters 
intelligibly,  I must  first  ask  your  attention  to  some  points  of 
general  scholarship. 

I said  in  my  last  lecture  that,  in  this  one,  it  would  be  need- 
ful for  us  to  consider  what  piety  was,  if  we  happened  not  to 
know ; or  worse  than  that,  it  may  be,  not  instinctively  to  feeL 


338 


VAL  D 'ARNO. 


Sucli  want  of  feeling  is  indeed  not  likely  in  you,  being  Eng- 
lish-bred ; yet  as  it  is  the  modern  cant  to  consider  all  such 
sentiment  as  useless,  or  even  shameful,  we  shall  be  in  several 
ways  advantaged  by  some  examination  of  its  nature.  Of  all 
classical  writers,  Horace  is  the  one  with  whom  English  gen- 
tlemen have  on  the  average  most  sympathy ; and  I believe, 
therefore,  we  shall  most  simply  and  easily  get  at  our  point  by 
examining  the  piety  of  Horace. 

219.  You  are  perhaps,  for  the  moment,  surprised,  whatever 
might  have  been  admitted  of  iEneas,  to  hear  Horace  spoken 
of  as  a pious  person.  But  of  course  when  your  attention  is 
turned  to  the  matter  you  will  recollect  many  lines  in  which 
the  word  c pietas  ’ occurs,  of  which  you  have  only  hitherto 
failed  to  allow  the  force  because  you  supposed  Horace  did  not 
mean  what  he  said. 

220.  But  Horace  always  and  altogether  means  what  he  says. 
It  is  just  because — whatever  his  faults  may  have  been — he 
was  not  a hypocrite,  that  English  gentlemen  are  so  fond  of 
him.  “ Here  is  a frank  fellow,  anyhow,”  they  say,  “ and  a 
witty  one.”  Wise  men  know  that  he  is  also  wise.  True  men 
know  that  he  is  also  true.  But  pious  men,  for  want  of  atten- 
tion, do  not  always  know  that  he  is  pious. 

One  great  obstacle  to  your  understanding  of  him  is  your 
having  been  forced  to  construct  Latin  verses,  with  introduction 
of  the  word  ‘ Jupiter  * always,  at  need,  when  you  were  at  a 
loss  for  a dactyl.  You  always  feel  as  if  Horace  only  used  it 
also  when  he  wanted  a dactyl. 

221.  Get  quit  of  that  notion  wholly.  All  immortal  writers 
speak  out  of  their  hearts.  Horace  spoke  out  of  the  abun- 
dance of  his  heart,  and  tells  you  precisely  what  he  is,  as  frankly 
as  Montaigne.  Note  then,  first,  how  modest  he  is  : “ Ne  parva 
Tyrrhenum  per  aequor,  vela  darem  ; — Operosa  parvus,  carmina 
fiugo.”  Trust  him  in  such  words  ; he  absolutely  means  them  ; 
knows  thoroughly  that  he  cannot  sail  the  Tyrrhene  Sea, — 
knows  that  he  cannot  float  on  the  winds  of  Matinum, — can 
only  murmur  in  the  sunny  hollows  of  it  among  the  heath. 
But  note,  secondly,  his  pride  : “ Exegi  monumentum  sere  per- 
ennius.”  He  is  not  the  least  afraid  to  say  that.  He  did  it ; 


TUE~  TYRRHENE  SEA . 


339 


knew  he  had  done  it ; said  he  had  done  it ; and  feared  no 
charge  of  arrogance. 

222.  Note  thirdly,  then,  his  piety,  and  accept  his  assured 
speech  of  it:  “Dis  pietas  mea,  et  Musa,  cordi  est.”  He  is 
perfectly  certain  of  that  also  ; serenely  tells  you  so  ; and  you 
had  better  believe  him.  Well  for  you,  if  you  can  believe  him  ; 
for  to  believe  him,  you  must  understand  him  first ; and  I can 
tell  you,  you  won’t  arrive  at  that  understanding  by  looking 
out  the  word  * pietas  ’ in  your  White-and-Riddle.  If  you  do, 
you  will  find  those  tiresome  contractions,  Etym.  Dub.,  stop 
your  inquiry  very  briefly,  as  you  go  back  ; if  you  go  forward, 
through  the  Italian  pieta,  you  will  arrive  presently  in  another 
group  of  ideas,  and  end  in  misericordia,  mercy,  and  pity. 
You  must  not  depend  on  the  form  of  the  word  ; you  must  find 
out  what  it  stands  for  in  Horace’s  mind,  and  in  Virgil’s. 
More  than  race  to  the  Roman  ; more  than  power  to  the  states- 
man ; yet  helpless  beside  the  grave, — “ Non,  Torquate,  genus, 
non  te  facundia,  non  te,  Restitvet  pietas.” 

Nay,  also  what  it  stands  for  as  an  attribute,  not  only  of 
men,  but  of  gods  ; nor  of  those  only  as  merciful,  but  also  as 
avenging.  Against  iEneas  himself,  Dido  invokes  the  waves 
of  the  Tyrrhene  Sea,  “si  quid  pia  numina  possunt.”  Be  as- 
sured there  is  no  getting  at  the  matter  by  dictionary  or  con- 
text. To  know  what  love  means,  you  must  love  ; to  know 
what  piety  means,  you  must  be  pious. 

223.  Perhaps  you  dislike  the  word,  now,  from  its  vulgar 
use.  You  may  have  another  if  you  choose,  a metaphorical 
one, — close  enough  it  seems  to  Christianity,  and  yet  still  ab- 
solutely distinct  from  it, — xpioros.  Suppose,  as  you  watch 
the  white  bloom  of  the  olives  of  Val  d’Arno  and  Val  di  Nie- 
vole,  which  modern  piety  and  economy  suppose  were  grown 
by  God  only  to  supply  you  with  fine  Lucca  oil,  you  were  to 
consider,  instead,  what  answer  you  could  make  to  the  Socratic 
question,  ttoOcv  av  ns  r ovto  to  xpta-fxa  \a/3oL* 

224.  I spoke  to  you  first  of  Horace’s  modesty.  All  piety 
begins  in  modesty.  You  must  feel  that  you  are  a very  little 
creature,  and  that  you  had  better  do  as  you  are  bid.  You 

* Xen.  Conviv.,  ii. 


340 


VAL  D 'ARNO. 


will  then  begin  to  think  what  you  are  bid  to  do,  and  who  bids 
it.  And  you  will  find,  unless  you  are  very  unhappy  indeed, 
that  there  is  always  a quite  clear  notion  of  right  and  wrong  in 
your  minds,  which  you  can  either  obey  or  disobey,  at  your 
pleasure.  Obey  it  simply  and  resolutely ; it  will  become 
clearer  to  you  every  day  : and  in  obedience  to  it,  you  will  find 
a sense  of  being  in  harmony  with  nature,  and  at  peace  with 
God,  and  all  His  creatures.  You  will  not  understand  how  the 
peace  comes,  nor  even  in  what  it  consists.  It  is  the  peace  that 
passes  understanding ; — it  is  just  as  visionary  and  imaginative 
as  love  is,  and  just  as  real,  and  just  as  necessary  to  the  life  of 
man.  It  is  the  only  source  of  true  cheerfulness,  and  of  true 
common  sense  ; and  whether  you  believe  the  Bible,  or  don’t, 
— or  believe  the  Koran,  or  don’t — or  believe  the  Yedas,  or 
don’t — it  will  enable  you  to  believe  in  God,  and  please  Him, 
and  be  such  a part  of  the  eiSoKta  of  the  universe  as  your  nature 
fits  you  to  be,  in  His  sight,  faithful  in  awe  to  the  powers  that 
are  above  you,  and  gracious  in  regard  to  the  creatures  that 
are  around. 

225.  I will  take  leave  on  this  head  to  read  one  more  piece 
of  Carlyle,  bearing  much  on  present  matters.  “I  hope  also 
they  will  attack  earnestly,  and  at  length  extinguish  and  eradi- 
cate, this  idle  habit  of  ‘ accounting  for  the  moral  sense,’  as 
they  phrase  it.  A most  singular  problem  ; — instead  of  bend- 
ing every  thought  to  have  more,  and  ever  more,  of  ‘ moral 
sense,’  and  therewith  to  irradiate  your  own  poor  soul,  and  all 
its  work,  into  something  of  divineness,  as  the  one  thing 
needful  to  you  in  this  world ! A very  futile  problem  that 
other,  my  friends  ; futile,  idle,  and  far  worse  ; leading  to 
what  moral  ruin,  you  little  dream  of!  The  moral  sense, 
thank  God,  is  a thing  you  never  will  ‘ account  for  ; ’ that,  if 
you  could  think  of  it,  is  the  perennial  miracle  of  man  ; in  all 
times,  visibly  connecting  poor  transitory  man,  here  on  this 
bewildered  earth,  with  his  Maker  who  is  eternal  in  the  heav- 
ens. By  no  greatest  happiness  principle,  greatest  nobleness 
principle,  or  any  principle  whatever,  will  you  make  that  in 
the  least  clearer  than  it  already  is  ; — forbear,  I say,  or  you 
may  darken  it  away  from  you  altogether  ! ‘Two  things,’  says 


THE  TYRRHENE  SEA. 


341 


the  memorable  Kant,  deepest  and  most  logical  of  metaphys- 
ical thinkers,  ‘ two  things  strike  me  dumb  : the  infinite  starry 
heavens  ; and  the  sense  of  right  and  wrong  in  man.’  Visible 
infinites,  both  ; say  nothing  of  them  ; don’t  try  to  * account 
for  them  for  you  can  say  nothing  wise.” 

226.  Very  briefly,  I must  touch  one  or  two  further  relative 
conditions  in  this  natural  history  of  the  soul.  I have  asked 
you  to  take  the  metaphorical,  but  distinct,  word  ‘ ypty/xa,  ’ rather 
than  the  direct  but  obscure  one  ‘ piety  ’ ; mainly  because  the 
Master  of  your  religion  chose  the  metaphorical  epithet  for  the 
perpetual  one  of  His  own  life  and  person. 

But  if  you  will  spend  a thoughtful  hour  or  two  in  reading 
the  scripture,  which  pious  Greeks  read,  not  indeed  on  dain- 
tily printed  paper,  but  on  daintily  painted  clay, — if  you  will 
examine,  that  is  to  say,  the  scriptures  of  the  Athenian  relig- 
ion, on  their  Pan-Athenaic  vases,  in  their  faithful  days,  you  will 
find  that  the  gift  of  the  literal  xp«rjua,  or  anointing  oil,  to  the 
victor  in  the  kingly  and  visible  contest  of  life,  is  signed  al- 
ways with  the  image  of  that  spirit  or  goddess  of  the  air  who 
was  the  source  of  their  invisible  life.  And  let  me,  before 
quitting  this  part  of  my  subject,  give  you  one  piece  of  what 
you  will  find  useful  counsel.  If  ever  from  the  right  apothe- 
cary, or  fxvpoTTuXrjs,  you  get  any  of  that  — don’t  be 

careful,  when  you  set  it  by,  of  looking  for  dead  dragons  or 
dead  dogs  in  it.  But  look  out  for  the  dead  flies. 

227.  Again  ; remember,  I only  quote  St.  Paul  as  I quote 
Xenophon  to  you ; but  I expect  you  to  get  some  good  from 
both.  As  I want  you  to  think  what  Xenophon  means  by 
‘ /xavTcta,’  so  I want  you  to  consider  also  what  St.  Paul  means 
by  ‘ 7rpoc£?7Teta.’  He  tells  you  to  prove  all  things, — to  hold 
fast  what  is  good,  and  not  to  despise  ‘ prophesyings.’ 

228.  Now  it  is  quite  literally  probable,  that  this  world, 
having  now  for  some  five  hundred  years  absolutely  refused 
to  do  as  it  is  plainly  bid  by  every  prophet  that  ever  spoke  in 
any  nation,  and  having  reduced  itself  therefore  to  Saul’s  con- 
dition, when  he  was  answered  neither  by  Urim  nor  by  proph- 
ets, may  be  now,  while  you  sit  there,  receiving  necromantic 
answers  from  the  witch  of  Endor.  But  with  that  possibility 


342 


VAL  D 'ARNO. 


yon  have  no  concern.  There  is  a prophetic  power  in  youi 
own  hearts,  known  to  the  Greeks,  known  to  the  Jews,  known 
to  the  Apostles,  and  knowable  by  you.  If  it  is  now  silent  to 
you,  do  not  despise  it  by  tranquillity  under  that  privation  ; 
if  it  speaks  to  you,  do  not  despise  it  by  disobedience. 

229.  Now  in  this  broad  definition  of  Pietas,  as  reverence 
to  sentimental  law,  you  will  find  I am  supported  by  all  clas- 
sical authority  and  use  of  this  word.  For  the  particular 
meaning  of  which  I am  next  about  to  use  the  word  Religion, 
there  is  no  such  general  authority,  nor  can  there  be,  for  any 
limited  or  accurate  meaning  of  it.  The  best  authors  use  the 
word  in  various  senses  ; and  you  must  interpret  each  writer 
by  his  own  context.  I have  myself  continually  used  the  term 
vaguely.  I shall  endeavour,  henceforward,  to  use  it  under 
limitations  which,  willing  always  to  accept,  I shall  only  trans- 
gress by  carelessness,  or  compliance  with  some  particular  use 
of  the  word  by  others.  The  power  in  the  word,  then,  which 
I wish  you  now  to  notice,  is  in  its  employment  with  respect 
to  doctrinal  divisions.  You  do  not  say  that  one  man  is  of 
one  piety,  and  another  of  another  ; but  you  do,  that  one  man 
is  of  one  religion,  and  another  of  another. 

230.  The  religion  of  any  man  is  thus  properly  to  be  inter- 
preted, as  the  feeling  which  binds  him,  irrationally,  to  the  ful- 
filment of  duties,  or  acceptance  of  beliefs,  peculiar  to  a cer- 
tain company  of  which  he  forms  a member,  as  distinct  from 
the  rest  of  the  world.  * Which  binds  him  irrationally  * I say  ; 
— by  a feeling,  at  all  events,  apart  from  reason,  and  often 
superior  to  it ; such  as  that  which  brings  back  the  bee  to  its 
hive,  and  the  bird  to  her  nest 

A man’s  religion  is  the  form  of  mental  rest,  or  dwelling- 
place,  which,  partly,  his  fathers  have  gained  or  built  for  him, 
and  partly,  by  due  reverence  to  former  custom,  he  has  built 
for  himself  ; consisting  of  whatever  imperfect  knowledge  may 
have  been  granted,  up  to  that  time,  in  the  land  of  his  birth,  of 
the  Divine  character,  presence,  and  dealings  ; modified  by  the 
circumstances  of  surrounding  life. 

It  may  be,  that  sudden  accession  of  new  knowledge  may 
compel  him  to  cast  his  former  idols  to  the  moles  and  to  the 


THE  TYRRHENE  SEA. 


343 


bats.  But  it  must  be  some  very  miraculous  interposition  in- 
deed which  can  justify  him  in  quitting  the  religion  of  his 
forefathers  ; and,  assuredly,  it  must  be  an  unwise  interposition 
which  provokes  him  to  insult  it. 

231.  On  the  other  hand,  the  value  of  religious  ceremonial, 
and  the  virtue  of  religious  truth,  consist  in  the  meek  fulfil- 
ment of  the  one  as  the  fond  habit  of  a family ; and  the  meek 
acceptance  of  the  other,  as  the  narrow  knowledge  of  a child. 
And  both  are  destroyed  at  once,  and  the  ceremonial  or  doc- 
trinal prejudice  becomes  only  an  occasion  of  sin,  if  they  make 
us  either  wise  in  our  own  conceit,  or  violent  in  our  methods 
of  proselytism.  Of  those  who  will  compass  sea  and  land  to 
make  one  proselyte,  it  is  too  generally  true  that  they  are  them- 
selves the  children  of  hell,  and  make  their  proselytes  twofold 
more  so. 

232.  And  now  I am  able  to  state  to  you,  in  terms  so  accu- 
rately defined  that  you  cannot  misunderstand  them,  that  we 
are  about  to  study  the  results  in  Italy  of  the  victory  of  an 
impious  Christian  over  a pious  Infidel,  in  a contest  which, 
if  indeed  principalities  of  evil  spirit  are  ever  permitted  to 
rule  over  the  darkness  of  this  world,  was  assuredly  by  them 
wholly  provoked,  and  by  them  finally  decided.  The  war  was 
not  actually  ended  until  the  battle  of  Tagliacozzo,  fought  in 
August,  1268  ; but  you  need  not  recollect  that  irregular  date, 
or  remember  it  only  as  three  years  after  the  great  battle  of 
Welcome,  Benevento,  which  was  the  decisive  one.  Recollect, 
therefore,  securely : 

1250.  The  First  Trades  Revolt  in  Florence. 

1260.  Battle  of  the  Arbia. 

1265.  Battle  of  Welcome. 

Then  between  the  battle  of  Welcome  and  of  Tagliacozzo, 
(which  you  might  almost  English  in  the  real  meaning  of  it  as 
the  battle  of  Hart’s  Death  : 4 cozzo  ’ is  a butt  or  thrust  with 
the  horn,  and  you  may  well  think  of  the  young  Conradin  as  a 
wild  hart  or  stag  of  the  hills) — between  those  two  battles,  in 
1266,  comes  the  second  and  central  revolt  of  the  trades  in 
Florence,  of  which  I have  to  speak  in  next  lecture. 

233.  The  two  German  princes  who  perished  in  these  two 


344 


VAL  D ARNO. 


battles — Manfred  of  Tarentum,  and  bis  nephew  and  ward  Con- 
radin— are  the  natural  son,  and  the  legitimate  grandson  of 
Frederick  II.  : they  are  also  the  last  assertors  of  the  infidel 
German  power  in  south  Italy  against  the  Church  ; and  in  alli- 
ance with  the  Saracens  ; such  alliance  having  been  maintained 
faithfully  ever  since  Frederick  IL’s  triumphal  entry  into  Jeru- 
salem, and  comation  as  its  king.  Not  only  a great  number 
of  Manfred’s  forts  were  commanded  by  Saracen  governors, 
but  he  had  them  also  appointed  over  civil  tribunals.  My  own 
impression  is  that  he  found  the  Saracens  more  just  and  trust- 
worthy than  the  Christians ; but  it  is  proper  to  remember  the 
allegations  of  the  Church  against  the  whole  Suabian  family ; 
namely,  that  Manfred  had  smothered  his  father  Frederick 
under  cushions  at  Ferentino ; and  that,  of  Frederick’s  Sons, 
Conrad  had  poisoned  Henry,  and  Manfred  had  poisoned  Con- 
rad. You  will,  however,  I believe,  find  the  Prince  Manfred 
one  of  the  purest  representatives  of  northern  chivalry.  Against 
his  nephew,  educated  in  all  knightly  accomplishment  by  his 
mother,  Elizabeth  of  Bavaria,  nothing  could  be  alleged  by  his 
enemies,  even  when  resolved  on  his  death,  but  the  splendour 
of  his  spirit  and  the  brightness  of  his  youth. 

234.  Of  the  character  of  their  enemy,  Charles  of  Anjou, 
there  will  remain  on  your  minds,  after  careful  examination  of 
his  conduct,  only  the  doubt  whether  I am  justified  in  speak- 
ing of  him  as  Christian  against  Infidel.  But  you  will  cease  to 
doubt  this  when  you  have  entirely  entered  into  the  conditions 
of  this  nascent  Christianity  of  the  thirteenth  century.  You 
will  find  that  while  men  who  desire  to  be  virtuous  receive  it 
as  the  mother  of  virtues,  men  who  desire  to  be  criminal  receive 
it  as  the  forgiver  of  crimes  ; and  that  therefore,  between  Gliib- 
elline  or  Infidel  cruelty,  and  Guelph  or  Christian  cruelty, 
there  is  always  this  difference, — that  the  Infidel  cruelty  is 
done  in  hot  blood,  and  the  Christian’s  in  cold.  I hope  (in 
future  lectures  on  the  architecture  of  Pisa)  to  illustrate  to  you 
the  opposition  between  the  Ghibelline  Conti,  counts,  and  the 
Guelphic  Visconti,  viscounts  or  “against  counts,”  which  is- 
sues, for  one  thing,  in  that,  by  all  men  blamed  as  too  deliber- 
ate, death  of  the  Count  Ugolino  della  Gherardesca.  The 


THE  TYRRHENE  SEA. 


345 


Count  Ugolino  was  a traitor,  who  entirely  deserved  death ; 
but  another  Count  of  Pisa,  entirely  faithful  to  the  Ghibelline 
cause,  was  put  to  death  by  Charles  of  Anjou,  not  only  in  cold 
blood,  but  with  resolute  infliction  of  Ugolino’s  utmost  grief ; 
— not  in  the  dungeon,  but  in  the  full  light  of  day — his  son  be- 
ing first  put  to  death  before  his  eyes.  And  among  the  pieces 
of  heraldry  most  significant  in  the  middle  ages,  the  asp  on 
the  shield  of  the  Guelphic  viscounts  is  to  be  much  remem- 
bered by  you  as  a sign  of  this  merciless  cruelty  of  mistaken 
religion  ; mistaken,  but  not  in  the  least  hypocritical.  It  has 
perfect  confidence  in  itself,  and  can  answer  with  serenity  for 
all  its  deeds.  The  serenity  of  heart  never  appears  in  the 
guilty  Infidels ; they  die  in  despair  or  gloom,  greatly  satis- 
factory to  adverse  religious  minds. 

235.  The  French  Pope,  then,  Urban  of  Troyes,  had  sent  for 
Charles  of  Anjou  ; who  would  not  have  answered  his  call, 
even  with  all  the  strength  of  Anjou  and  Provence,  had  not 
Scylla  of  the  Tyrrhene  Sea  been  on  his  side.  Pisa,  with 
eighty  galleys  (the  Sicilian  fleet  added  to  her  own),  watched 
and  defended  the  coasts  of  Rome.  An  irresistible  storm  drove 
her  fleet  to  shelter  ; and  Charles,  in  a single  ship,  reached  the 
mouth  of  the  Tiber,  and  found  lodgings  at  Rome  in  the  con- 
vent of  St.  Paul.  His  wife  meanwhile  spent  her  dowry  in  in- 
creasing his  land  army,  and  led  it  across  the  Alps.  How  he 
had  got  his  wife,  and  her  dowry,  we  must  hear  in  Villani’s 
words,  as  nearly  as  I can  give  their  force  in  English,  only,  in- 
stead of  the  English  word  pilgrim,  I shall  use  the  Italian 
‘ romeo,’  for  the  sake  both  of  all  English  Juliets,  and  that  you 
may  better  understand  the  close  of  the  sixth  canto  of  the 
Paradise. 

236.  “Now  the  Count  Raymond  Berenger  had  for  his  in- 
heritance all  Provence  on  this  side  Rhone  ; and  he  was  a wise 
and  courteous  signor,  and  of  noble  state,  and  virtuous ; and 
in  his  time  they  did  honourable  things  ; and  to  his  court 
came  by  custom  all  the  gentlemen  of  Provence,  and  France, 
and  Catalonia,  for  his  courtesy  and  noble  state  ; and  there  they 
made  many  cobbled  verses,  and  Proven9al  songs  of  great  sen- 
tences.’' 


346 


VAL  D 'ARNO. 


237.  I must  stop  to  tell  you  that  ‘cobbled ’or  ‘coupled’ 
verses  mean  rhymes,  as  opposed  to  the  dull  method  of  Latin 
verse  ; for  we  have  now  got  an  ear  for  jingle,  and  know  that 
dove  rhymes  to  love.  Also,  “songs  of  great  sentences”  mean 
didactic  songs,  containing  much  in  little,  (like  the  new 
didactic  Christian  painting,)  of  which  an  example  (though  of 
a later  time)  will  give  you  a better  idea  than  any  description. 


“ Vraye  foy  de  necessity, 

Non  tant  settlement  d’equite, 

Nous  fait  de  Dieu  sept  clioses  croire  : 

CPest  sa  doulce  nativite, 

Son  baptesme  d'bumilite, 

Et  sa  mort.  digne  de  memoire : 

Son  descens  en  la  chartre  noire, 

Et  sa  resurrection,  voire  ; 

S’ascencion  d’auctorite, 

La  venue  judicatoire, 

Ou  ly  bons  seront  mis  en  gloire, 

Et  ly  mals  en  adversity.” 

238.  “ And  while  they  were  making  these  cobbled  verses 
and  harmonious  creeds,  there  came  a romeo  to  court,  return- 
ing from  the  shrine  of  St.  James.”  I must  stop  again  just  to 
say  that  he  ought  to  have  been  called  a pellegrino,  not  a 
romeo,  for  the  three  kinds  of  wanderers  are, — Palmer,  one 
who  goes  to  the  Holy  Land  ; Pilgrim,  one  who  goes  to  Spain ; 
and  Romeo,  one  who  goes  to  Rome.  Probably  this  romeo 
had  been  to  both.  “ He  stopped  at  Count  Raymond’s  court, 
and  was  so  wise  and  worthy  (valoroso),  and  so  won  the  Count's 
grace,  that  he  made  him  his  master  and  guide  in  all  things. 
Who  also,  maintaining  himself  in  honest  and  religious  cus- 
toms of  life,  in  a little  time,  by  his  industry  and  good  sense, 
doubled  the  Count’s  revenues  three  times  over,  maintaining 
always  a great  and  honoured  court.  Now  the  Count  had  four 
daughters,  and  no  son  ; and  by  the  sense  and  provision  of  the 
good  romeo — (I  can  do  no  better  than  translate  ‘ procaccio  * 
provision,  but  it  is  only  a makeshift  for  the  word  derived  from 
procax,  meaning  the  general  talent  of  prudent  impudence,  in 


THE  TYRRHENE  SEA. 


347 


getting  forward  ; ‘forwardness/  has  a good  deal  of  the  true 
sense,  only  diluted  ;) — well,  by  the  sense  and — progressive 
faculty,  shall  we  say  ? — of  the  good  pilgrim,  he  first  married 
the  eldest  daughter,  by  means  of  money,  to  the  good  King 
Louis  of  France,  saying  to  the  Count,  ‘ Let  me  alone, — Lascia- 
mi-fare — and  never  mind  the  expense,  for  if  you  marry  the 
first  one  well,  I’ll  marry  you  all  the  others  cheaper,  for  her 
relationship.’ 

239.  “And  so  it  fell  out,  sure  enough  ; for  incontinently 
the  King  of  England  (Henry  HI.)  because  he  was  the  King  of 
France’s  relation,  took  the  next  daughter,  Eleanor,  for  very 
little  money  indeed  ; next,  his  natural  brother,  elect  King  of 
the  Romans,  took  the  third  ; and,  the  youngest  still  remaining 
unmarried, — says  the  good  romeo,  ‘ Now  for  this  one,  I will 
you  to  have  a strong  man  for  son-in-law,  who  shall  be  thy 
heir  ; * — and  so  he  brought  it  to  pass.  For  finding  Charles, 
Count  of  Anjou,  brother  of  the  King  Louis,  he  said  to  Ray- 
mond, * Give  her  now  to  him,  for  his  fate  is  to  be  the  best 
man  in  the  w^orld/ — prophesying  of  him.  And  so  it  was  done. 
And  after  all  this  it  came  to  pass,  by  envy  which  ruins  all 
good,  that  the  barons  of  Provence  became  jealous  of  the  good 
romeo,  and  accused  him  to  the  Count  of  having  ill-guided  his 
goods,  and  made  Raymond  demand  account  of  them.  Then 
the  good  romeo  said,  ‘ Count,  I have  served  thee  long,  and 
have  put  thee  from  little  state  into  mighty,  and  for  this,  by 
false  counsel  of  thy  people,  thou  art  little  grateful.  I came 
into  thy  court  a poor  romeo  ; I have  lived  honestly  on  thy 
means ; now,  make  to  be  given  to  me  my  little  mule  and  my 
staff  and  my  wallet,  as  I came,  and  I will  make  thee  quit  of 
all  my  service.’  The  Count  would  not  he  should  go  ; but  for 
nothing  would  he  stay  ; and  so  he  came,  and  so  he  departed, 
that  no  one  ever  knew  whence  he  had  come,  nor  whither  he 
went.  It  was  the  thought  of  many  that  he  was  indeed  a 
sacred  spirit.” 

240.  This  pilgrim,  you  are  to  notice,  is  put  by  Dante  in  the 
orb  of  justice,  as  a just  servant ; the  Emperor  Justinian  being 
the  image  of  a just  ruler.  Justinian’s  law-making  turned  out 
well  for  England  ; but  the  good  romeo’s  match-making  ended 


348 


VAL  D' ARNO. 


ill  for  it ; and  for  Home,  and  Naples  also.  For  Beatrice  of 
Provence  resolved  to  be  a queen  like  her  three  sisters,  and 
was  the  prompting  spirit  of  Charles’s  expedition  to  Italy. 
She  was  crowned  with  him,  Queen  of  Apulia  and  Sicily,  on 
the  day  of  the  Epiphany,  1265  ; she  and  her  husband  bring- 
ing gifts  that  day  of  magical  power  enough  ; and  Charles,  as 
soon  as  the  feast  of  coronation  was  over,  set  out  to  give  battle 
to  Manfred  and  his  Saracens.  “ And  this  Charles,”  says  Vil- 
lani,  “ was  wise,  and  of  sane  counsel ; and  of  prowess  in 
arms,  and  fierce,  and  much  feared  and  redoubted  by  all  the 
kings  in  the  world rmagnanimous  and  of  high  purposes  ; 
fearless  in  the  carrying  forth  of  every  great  enterprise  ; firm 
in  every  adversity  ; a verifier  of  his  every  word  ; speaking 
little, — doing  much  ; and  scarcely  ever  laughed,  and  then  but 
a little  ; sincere,  and  without  flaw,  as  a religious  and  catholic 
person  ; stern  in  justice,  and  fierce  in  look  ; tall  and  nervous 
in  person,  olive  coloured,  and  with  a large  nose,  and  well  he 
appeared  a royal  majesty  more  than  other  men.  Much  he 
watched,  and  little  he  slept ; and  used  to  say  that  so  much 
time  as  one  slept,  one  lost ; generous  to  his  men-at-arms,  but 
covetous  to  acquire  land,  signory,  and  coin,  come  how  it 
would,  to  furnish  his  enterprises  and  wars  : in  courtiers,  ser- 
vants of  pleasure,  or  jocular  persons,  he  delighted  never.” 

241.  To  this  newly  crowned  and  resolute  king,  riding  south 
from  Borne,  Manfred,  from  his  vale  of  Nocera  under  Mount 
St.  Angelo,  sends  to  offer  conditions  of  peace.  Jehu  the  son 
of  Nimshi  is  not  swifter  of  answer  to  Ahaziah’s  messenger 
than  the  fiery  Christian  king,  in  his  * What  hast  thou  to  do 
wdth  peace  ? ’ Charles  answers  the  messengers  with  his  own 
lips  : “ Tell  the  Sultan  of  Nocera,  this  day  I will  put  him  in 
hell,  or  he  shall  put  me  in  paradise.” 

242.  Do  not  think  it  the  speech  of  a hypocrite.  Charles 
was  as  fully  prepared  for  death  that  day  as  ever  Scotch  Cove- 
nanter fighting  for  his  Holy  League  ; and  as  sure  that  death 
would  find  him,  if  it  found,  only  to  glorify  and  bless.  Bal- 
four of  Burley  against  Claverhouse  is  not  more  convinced  in 
heart  that  he  draws  the  sword  of  the  Lord  and  of  Gideon. 
But  all  the  knightly  pride  of  Claverhouse  himself  is  knit  to- 


THE  TYRRHENE  SEA. 


349 


gether,  in  Charles,  with  fearless  faith,  and  religious  wrath. 
‘‘This  Saracen  scum,  led  by  a bastard  German, — traitor  to 
his  creed,  usurper  among  his  race, — dares  it  look  me,  a Chris- 
tian knight,  a prince  of  the  house  of  France,  in  the  eyes  ? 
Tell  the  Sultan  of  Nocera,  to-day  I put  him  in  hell,  or  he  puts 
me  in  paradise.” 

They  are  not  passionate  words  neither ; any  more  than  hyp- 
ocritical ones.  They  are  measured,  resolute,  and  the  fewest 
possible.  He  never  wasted  words,  nor  showed  his  mind,  but 
when  he  meant  it  should  be  known. 

243.  The  messenger  returned,  thus  answered ; and  the 
French  king  rode  on  with  his  host.  Manfred  met  him  in 
the  plain  of  Grandella,  before  Benevento.  I have  translated 
the  name  of  the  fortress  ‘Welcome.’  It  was  altered,  as  you 
may  remember,  from  Maleventum,  for  better  omen  ; perhaps, 
originally,  only  /xaXocts — a rock  full  of  wild  goats  ? — associat- 
ing it  thus  with  the  meaning  of  Tagliacozzo. 

244.  Charles  divided  his  army  into  four  companies.  The 
captain  of  his  own  was  our  English  Guy  de  Montfort,  on  whom 
rested  the  power  and  the  fate  of  his  grandfather,  the  pursuer 
of  the  Waldensian  shepherds  among  the  rocks  of  the  wild 
goats.  The  last,  and  it  is  said  the  goodliest,  troop  was  of 
the  exiled  Guelphs  of  Florence,  under  Guido  Guerra,  whose 
name  you  already  know.  “These,”  said  Manfred,  as  he 
watched  them  ride  into  their  ranks,  “cannot  lose  to-day.”  He 
meant  that  if  he  himself  was  the  victor,  he  would  restore 
these  exiles  to  their  city.  The  event  of  the  battle  was  decided 
by  the  treachery  of  the  Count  of  Caserta,  Manfred’s  brother- 
in-law.  At  the  end  of  the  day  only  a few  knights  remained 
with  him,  whom  he  led  in  the  last  charge.  As  he  helmed 
himself,  the  crest  fell  from  his  helmet.  “ Hoc  est  signum 
Dei,”  he  said, — so  accepting  what  he  saw  to  be  the  purpose 
of  the  Ruler  of  all  things ; not  claiming  God  as  his  friend, 
not  asking  anything  of  Him,  as  if  His  purpose  could  be 
changed  ; not  fearing  Him  as  an  enemy  ; but  accepting  simply 
His  sign  that  the  appointed  day  of  death  was  come.  He  rode 
into  the  battle  armed  like  a nameless  soldier,  and  lay  un- 
known among  the  dead. 


350 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


245.  And  in  him  died  all  southern  Italy.  Never,  after  that 
day’s  treachery,  did  her  nobles  rise,  or  her  people  prosper. 

Of  the  finding  of  the  body  of  Manfred,  and  its  casting 
forth,  accursed,  you  may  read,  if  you  will,  the  story  in  Dante. 
I trace  for  you  to-day  rapidly  only  the  acts  of  Charles  after 
this  victory,  and  its  consummation,  three  years  later,  by  the 
defeat  of  Conradin. 

The  town  of  Benevento  had  offered  no  resistance  to  Charles, 
but  he  gave  it  up  to  pillage,  and  massacred  its  inhabitants. 
The  slaughter,  indiscriminate,  continued  for  eight  days ; the 
women  and  children  were  slain  with  the  men,  being  of  Sara- 
cen blood.  Manfred’s  wife,  Sybil  of  Epirus,  his  children,  and 
all  his  barons,  died,  or  were  put  to  death,  in  the  prisons  of 
Provence.  With  the  young  Conrad,  all  the  faithful  Ghibel- 
line  knights  of  Pisa  were  put  to  death.  The  son  of  Freder- 
ick of  Antioch,  who  drove  the  Guelphs  from  Florence,  had 
his  eyes  torn  out,  and  was  hanged,  he  being  the  last  child  of 
the  house  of  Suabia.  Twenty-four  of  the  barons  of  Calabria 
were  executed  at  Gallipoli,  and  at  Kome.  Charles  cut  off  the 
feet  of  those  who  had  fought  for  Conrad  ; then — fearful  lest 
they  should  be  pitied — shut  them  into  a house  of  wood, 
and  burned  them.  His  lieutenant  in  Sicily,  William  of  the 
Standard,  besieged  the  town  of  Augusta,  which  defended  it- 
self with  some  fortitude,  but  was  betrayed,  and  all  its  inhab- 
itants, (who  must  have  been  more  than  three  thousand,  for 
there  were  a thousand  able  to  bear  arms,)  massacred  in  cold 
blood  ; the  last  of  them  searched  for  in  their  hiding-places, 
when  the  streets  were  empty,  dragged  to  the  sea-shore,  then 
beheaded,  and  their  bodies  thrown  into  the  sea.  Throughout 
Calabria  the  Christian  judges  of  Charles  thus  forgave  his 
enemies.  And  the  Mohammedan  power  and  heresy  ended  in 
Italy,  and  she  became  secure  in  her  Catholic  creed. 

246.  Not  altogether  secure  -under  French  dominion.  After 
fourteen  years  of  misery,  Sicily  sang  her  angry  vespers,  and 
a Calabrian  admiral  burnt  the  fleet  of  Charles  before  his  eyes, 
where  Scylla  rules  her  barking  Salamis.  But  the  French 
king  died  in  prayerful  peace,  receiving  the  sacrament  with 
these  words  of  perfectly  honest  faith,  as  he  reviewed  his  past 


THE  TYRRHENE  SEA. 


351 


life  : “Lord  God,  as  I truly  believe  that  you  are  my  Saviour, 
so  I pray  you  to  have  mercy  on  my  soul ; and  as  I truly  made 
the  conquest  of  Sicily  more  to  serve  the  Holy  Church  than 
for  my  own  covetousness,  so  I pray  you  to  pardon  my  sins.” 

247.  You  are  to  note  the  two  clauses  of  this  prayer.  He 
prays  absolute  mercy,  on  account  of  his  faith  in  Christ ; but 
remission  of  purgatory,  in  proportion  to  the  quantity  of  good 
work  he  has  done,  or  meant  to  do,  as  against  evil.  You  are 
so  much  wiser  in  these  days,  you  think,  not  believing  in  pur- 
gatory ; and  so  much  more  benevolent, — not  massacring 
women  and  children.  But  we  must  not  be  too  proud  of  not 
believing  in  purgatory,  unless  we  are  quite  sure  of  our  real 
desire  to  be  purified  : and  as  to  our  not  massacring  children, 
it  is  true  that  an  English  gentleman  will  not  now  himself 
willingly  put  a knife  into  the  throat  either  of  a child  or  a 
lamb ; but  he  will  kill  any  quantity  of  children  by  disease  in 
order  to  increase  his  rents,  as  unconcernedly  as  he  will  eat 
any  quantity  of  mutton.  And  as  to  absolute  massacre,  I do 
not  suppose  a child  feels  so  much  pain  in  being  killed  as  a 
full-grown  man,  and  its  life  is  of  less  value  to  it.  No  pain 
either  of  body  or  thought  through  which  you  could  put  an 
infant,  would  be  comparable  to  that  of  a good  son,  or  a faith- 
ful lover,  dying  slowly  of  a painful  wound  at  a distance  from 
a family  dependent  upon  him,  or  a mistress  devoted  to  him. 
But  the  victories  of  Charles,  and  the  massacres,  taken  in  sum, 
would  not  give  a muster-roll  of  more  than  twenty  thousand 
dead ; men,  women,  and  children  counted  all  together.  On 
the  plains  of  France,  since  I first  began  to  speak  to  you  on 
the  subject  of  the  arts  of  peace,  at  least  five  hundred  thousand 
men,  in  the  prime  of  life,  have  been  massacred  by  the  folly 
of  one  Christian  emperor,  the  insolence  of  another,  and  the 
mingling  of  mean  rapacity  with  meaner  vanity,  which  Chris- 
tian nations  now  call  ‘patriotism.’ 

248.  But  that  the  Crusaders,  (whether  led  by  St.  Louis  or 
by  his  brother,)  who  habitually  lived  by  robbery,  and  might 
be  swiftly  enraged  to  murder,  were  still  too  savage  to  con- 
ceive the  spirit  or  the  character  of  this  Christ  whose  cross 
they  wear,  I have  again  and  again  alleged  to  you  ; not,  I im- 


352 


VAL  B 'ARNO. 


agine,  without  question  from  many  who  have  been  accustomed 
to  look  to  these  earlier  ages  as  authoritative  in  doctrine,  if 
not  in  example.  We  alike  err  in  supposing  them  more  spirit- 
ual or  more  dark,  than  our  own.  They  had  not  yet  attained 
to  the  knowledge  which  we  have  despised,  nor  dispersed 
from  their  faith  the  shadows  with  which  we  have  again  over- 
clouded ours. 

Their  passions,  tumultuous  and  merciless  as  the  Tyrrhene 
Sea,  raged  indeed  with  the  danger,  but  also  with  the  uses,  of 
naturally  appointed  storm  ; while  ours,  pacific  in  corruption, 
languish  in  vague  maremma  of  misguided  pools  ; and  are 
pestilential  most  surely  as  they  retire. 


LECTURE  X. 

FLEUR  DE  LYS. 

249.  Through  all  the  tempestuous  winter  which  during  the 
period  of  history  we  have  been  reviewing,  weakened,  in  their 
war  with  the  opposed  rocks  of  religious  or  knightly  pride,  the 
waves  of  the  Tuscan  Sea,  there  has  been  slow  increase  of  the 
Eavonian  power  which  is  to  bring  fruitfulness  to  the  rock, 
peace  to  the  wave.  The  new  element  which  is  introduced  in 
the  thirteenth  century,  and  perfects  for  a little  time  the  work 
of  Christianity,  at  least  in  some  few  chosen  souls,  is  the  law 
of  Order  and  Charity,  of  intellectual  and  moral  virtue,  which 
it  now  became  the  function  of  every  great  artist  to  teach,  and 
of  every  true  citizen  to  maintain. 

250.  I have  placed  on  your  table  one  of  the  earliest  existing 
engravings  by  a Florentine  hand,  representing  the  conception 
which  the  national  mind  formed  of  this  spirit  of  order  and 
tranquillity,  “ Cosmico,”  or  the  Equity  of  Kosmos,  not  by 
senseless  attraction,  but  by  spiritual  thought  and  law.  He 
stands  pointing  with  his  left  hand  to  the  earth,  set  only  with 
tufts  of  grass  ; in  his  right  hand  he  holds  the  ordered  system 
of  the  universe — heaven  and  earth  in  one  orb  ; — the  heaven 
made  cosmic  by  the  courses  of  its  stars ; the  earth  cosmic  by 


Plate  IX.— The  Charge  to  Adam.  Modern  Italian. 


FLEUR  DE  LYS. 


353 


tlie  seats  of  authority  and  fellowship, — castles  on  the  hills  and 
cities  in  the  plain. 

251.  The  tufts  of  grass  under  the  feet  of  this  figure  will  ap- 
pear to  you,  at  first,  grotesquely  formal.  But  they  are  only 
the  simplest  expression,  in  such  herbage,  of  the  subjection  of 
all  vegetative  force  to  this  law  of  order,  equity,  or  symmetry, 
which,  made  by  the  Greek  the  principal  method  of  his  current 
vegetative  sculpture,  subdues  it,  in  the  hand  of  Cora  or  Trip- 
tolemus,  into  the  merely  triple  sceptre,  or  animates  it,  in  Flor- 
ence, to  the  likeness  of  the  Fleur-de-lys. 

252.  I have  already  stated  to  you  that  if  any  definite  flower 
is  meant  by  these  triple  groups  of  leaves,  which  take  their 
authoritatively  typical  form  in  the  crowns  of  the  Cretan  and 
Lacinian  Hera,  it  is  not  the  violet,  but  the  purple  iris ; or 
sometimes,  as  in  Pindar’s  description  of  the  birth  of  Iamus, 
the  yellow  water-flag,  which  you  know  so  well  in  spring,  by 
the  banks  of  your  Oxford  streams.*  But,  in  general,  it  means 
simply  the  springing  of  beautiful  and  orderly  vegetation  in 
fields  upon  which  the  dew  falls  pure.  It  is  the  expression, 
therefore,  of  peace  on  the  redeemed  and  cultivated  earth,  and 
of  the  pleasure  of  heaven  in  the  uncareful  happiness  of  men 
clothed  without  labour,  and  fed  without  fear. 

253.  In  the  passage,  so  often  read  by  us,  which  announces 
the  advent  of  Christianity  as  the  dawn  of  peace  on  earth,  we 
habitually  neglect  great  part  of  the  promise,  owing  to  the 
false  translation  of  the  second  clause  of  the  sentence.  I can- 
not understand  how  it  should  be  still  needful  to  point  out  to 
you  here  in  Oxford  that  neither  the  Greek  words  “iv  avOpurn-ois 
cvSoKta,”  nor  those  of  the  vulgate,  “ in  terra  pax  hominibus 

* In  the  catalogues  of  the  collection  of  drawings  in  this  room,  and  in 
my  “ Queen  of  the  Air  ” you  will  find  all  that  I would  ask  you  to  notice 
about  the  various  names  and  kinds  of  the  flower,  and  their  symbolic 
use. — Note  only, with  respect  to  our  present  purpose,  that  while  the  true 
white  lily  is  placed  in  the  hands  of  the  Angel  of  the  Annunciation  even 
by  Florentine  artists,  in  their  general  design,  the  fleur-de-lys  is  given  to 
him  by  Giovanni  Pisano  on  the  f agade  of  Orvieto;  and  that  the  flower  in 
the  crown-circlets  of  European  kings  answers,  as  I stated  to  you  in  my 
lecture  on  the  Corona,  to  the  Narcissus  fillet  of  early  Greece  ; the  crown 
of  abundance  and  rejoicing. 


354 


VAX  D 'ARNO. 


bonse  voluntatis,”  in  the  slightest  degree  justify  our  English 
words,  “ goodwill  to  men.” 

Of  God  s goodwill  to  men,  and  to  all  creatures,  for  ever, 
there  needed  no  proclamation  by  angels.  But  that  men  should 
be  able  to  please  Him, — that  their  wills  should  be  made  holy, 
and  they  should  not  only  possess  peace  in  themselves,  but  be 
able  to  give  joy  to  their  God,  in  the  sense  in  which  He  after- 
wards is  pleased  with  His  own  baptized  Son ; — this  was  a new 
thing  for  Angels  to  declare,  and  for  shepherds  to  believe. 

_ 254.  And  the  error  was  made  yet  more  fatal  by  its  repeti- 
tion in  a passage  of  parallel  importance, — the  thanksgiving, 
namely,  offered  by  Christ,  that  His  Father,  while  He  had  hid- 
den what  it  was  best  to  know,  not  from  the  wise  and  prudent, 
but  from  some  among  the  wise  and  prudent,  and  had  revealed 
it  unto  babes  ; not  ‘ for  so  it  seemed  good  * in  His  sight,  but 
‘ that  there  might  be  well  pleasing  in  His  sight,  ’—namely ,’  that 
the  wise  and  simple  might  equally  live  in  the  necessary  knowl- 
edge,  and  enjoyed  presence,  of  God.  And  if,  having  accurate- 
ly read  these  vital  passages,  you  then  as  carefully  consider  the 
tenour  of  the  two  songs  of  human  joy  in  the  birth  of  Christ, 
the  Magnificat,  and  the  Nunc  dimittis,  you  will  find  the  theme 
of  both  to  be,  not  the  newness  of  blessing,  but  the  equity 
which  disappoints  the  cruelty  and  humbles  the  strength  of 
men  ; which  scatters  the  proud  in  the  imagination  of  their 
hearts  ; which  fills  the  hungry  with  good  things  ; and  is  not 
only  the  glory  of  Israel,  but  the  light  of  the  Gentiles. 

255.  As  I have  been  writing  these  paragraphs,  I have  been 
checking  myself  almost  at  every  word, — wondering,  Will  they 
be  restless  on  their  seats  at  this,  and  thinking  all  the  while 
that  they  did  not  come  here  to  be  lectured  on  Divinity  ? You 
may  have  been  a little  impatient, — how  could  it  well  be  other- 
wise ? Had  I been  explaining  points  of  anatomy,  and  showing 
you  how  you  bent  your  necks  and  straightened  your  legs,  you 
would  have  thought  me  quite  in  my  proper  function  ; because 
then,  when  you  went  with  a party  of  connoisseurs  through  the 
Vatican,  you  could  point  out  to  them  the  insertion  of  the  clav- 
icle in  the  Apollo  Belvidere  ; and  in  the  Sistine  Chapel  the 
perfectly  accurate  delineation  of  the  tibia  in  the  legs  of  Christ 


FLEUR  BE  LYS. 


355 


Doubtless ; but  you  know  I am  lecturing  at  present  on  the 
goffi,  and  not  on  Michael  Angelo  ; and  the  goffi  are  very  care- 
less about  clavicles  and  shin-bones ; so  that  if,  after  being 
lectured  on  anatomy,  you  went  into  the  Campo  Santo  of  Pisa, 
you  would  simply  find  nothing  to  look  at,  except  three  tol- 
erably well-drawn  skeletons.  But  if  after  being  lectured  on 
theology,  you  go  into  the  Campo  Santo  of  Pisa,  you  will  find 
not  a little  to  look  at,  and  to  remember. 

256.  For  a single  instance,  you  know  Michael  Angelo  is  ad- 
mitted to  have  been  so  far  indebted  to  these  goffi  as  to  borrow 
from  the  one  to  whose  study  of  mortality  I have  just  referred, 
Orcagna,  the  gesture  of  his  Christ  in  the  Judgment.  He  bor- 
rowed, however,  accurately  speaking,  the  position  only,  not 
the  gesture  ; nor  the  meaning  of  it.*  You  all  remember  the 
action  of  Michael  Angelo’s  Christ, — the  right  hand  raised  as 
if  in  violence  of  reprobation  ; and  the  left  closed  across  His 
breast,  as  refusing  all  mercy.  The  action  is  one  which  appeals 
to  persons  of  very  ordinary  sensations,  and  is  very  naturally 
adopted  by  the  Renaissance  painter,  both  for  its  popular  effect, 
and  its  capabilities  for  the  exhibition  of  his  surgical  science. 
But  the  old  painter-theologian,  though  indeed  he  showed  the 
right  hand  of  Christ  lifted,  and  the  left  hand  laid  across  His 
breast,  had  another  meaning  in  the  actions.  The  fingers  of 
the  left  hand  are  folded,  in  both  the  figures  ; but  in  Michael 
Angelo’s  as  if  putting  aside  an  appeal ; in  Orcagna’s,  the  fin- 
gers are  bent  to  draw  back  the  drapery  from  the  right  side. 
The  right  hand  is  raised  by  Michael  Angelo  as  in  anger  ; by 
Orcagna,  only  to  show  the  wounded  palm.  And  as,  to  the 
believing  disciples,  He  showed  them  His  hands  and  His  side, 
so  that  they  were  glad, — so,  to  the  unbelievers,  at  their  judg- 
ment, He  shows  the  wounds  in  hand  and  side.  They  shall 
look  on  Him  whom  they  pierced. 

257.  And  thus,  as  we  follow  our  proposed  examination  of 
the  arts  of  the  Christian  centuries,  our  understanding  of  their 
work  will  be  absolutely  limited  by  the  degree  of  our  sympathy 
with  the  religion  which  our  fathers  have  bequeathed  to  us. 

* I found  all  tliis  in  M.  Didron’s  Iconographie,  above  quoted  ; I had 
never  noticed  the  difference  between  the  two  figures  myself. 


356 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


You  cannot  interpret  classic  marbles  without  knowing  and 
loving  your  Pindar  and  iEschylus,  neither  can  you  interpret 
Christian  pictures  without  knowing  and  loving  your  Isaiah  and 
Matthew.  And  I shall  have  continually  to  examine  texts  of 
the  one  as  I would  verses  of  the  other  ; nor  must  you  retract 
yourselves  from  the  labour  in  suspicion  that  I desire  to  betray 
your  scepticism,  or  undermine  your  positivism,  because  I rec- 
ommend to  you  the  accurate  study  of  books  which  have 
hitherto  been  the  light  of  the  world. 

258.  The  change,  then,  in  the  minds  of  their  readers  at  this 
date,  which  rendered  it  possible  for  them  to  comprehend  the 
full  purport  of  Christianity,  was  in  the  rise  of  the  new  desire 
for  equity  and  rest,  amidst  what  had  hitherto  been  mere  lust 
for  spoil,  and  joy  in  battle.  The  necessity  for  justice  was  felt 
in  the  now  extending  commerce  ; the  desire  of  rest  in  the  now 
pleasant  and  fitly  furnished  habitation  ; and  the  energy  which 
formerly  could  only  be  satisfied  in  strife,  now  found  enough 
both  of  provocation  and  antagonism  in  the  invention  of  art, 
and  the  forces  of  nature.  I have  in  this  course  of  lectures 
endeavoured  to  fasten  your  attention  on  the  Florentine  Revo- 
lution of  1250,  because  its  date  is  so  easily  memorable,  and  it 
involves  the  principles  of  every  subsequent  one,  so  as  to  lay 
at  once  the  foundations  of  whatever  greatness  Florence  after- 
wards achieved  by  her  mercantile  and  civic  power.  But  I 
must  not  close  even  this  slight  sketch  of  the  central  history  of 
Yal  d’Arno  without  requesting  you,  as  you  find  time,  to  asso- 
ciate in  your  minds,  with  this  first  revolution,  the  effects  of 
two  which  followed  it,  being  indeed  necessary  parts  of  it,  in 
the  latter  half  of  the  century. 

259.  Remember  then  that  the  first,  in  1250,  is  embryonic ; 
and  the  significance  of  it  is  simply  the  establishment  of  order, 
and  justice  against  violence  and  iniquity.  It  is  equally  against 
the  power  of  knights  and  priests,  so  far  as  either  are  unjust, 
— not  otherwise. 

When  Manfred  fell  at  Benevento,  his  lieutenant,  the  Count 
Guido  Novello,  was  in  command  of  Florence.  He  was  just, 
but  weak  ; and  endeavoured  to  temporize  with  the  Guelphs. 
His  effort  ought  to  be  notable  to  you,  because  it  was  one  of 


FLEUR  BE  LYS. 


357 


the  wisest  and  most  far-sighted  ever  made  in  Italy ; but  it 
failed  for  want  of  resolution,  as  the  gentlest  and  best  men  are 
too  apt  to  fail.  He  brought  from  Bologna  two  knights  of  the 
order — then  recently  established — of  joyful  brethren ; after- 
wards too  fatally  corrupted,  but  at  this  time  pure  in  purpose. 
They  constituted  an  order  of  chivalry  which  was  to  maintain 
peace,  obey  the  Church,  and  succour  widows  and  orphans  ; 
but  to  be  bound  by  no  monastic  vows.  Of  these  two  knights, 
he  chose  one  Guelph,  the  other  Ghibelline  ; and  under  their 
balanced  power  Guido  hoped  to  rank  the  forces  of  the  civil, 
manufacturing,  and  trading  classes,  divided  into  twelve  cor- 
porations of  higher  and  lower  arts.*  But  the  moment  this 
beautiful  arrangement  was  made,  all  parties — Guelph,  Ghibel- 
line, and  popular, — turned  unanimously  against  Count  Guido 
Novello.  The  benevolent  but  irresolute  captain  indeed  gath- 
ered his  men  into  the  square  of  the  Trinity ; but  the  people 
barricaded  the  streets  issuing  from  it ; and  Guido,  heartless, 
and  unwilling  for  civil  warfare,  left  the  city  with  his  Germans 
in  good  order.  And  so  ended  the  incursion  of  the  infidel 
Tedeschi  for  this  time.  The  Florentines  then  dismissed  the 
merry  brothers  whom  the  Tedeschi  had  set  over  them,  and 
besought  help  from  Orvieto  and  Charles  of  Anjou  ; who  sent 
them  Guy  de  Montfort  and  eight  hundred  French  riders  ; 
the  blessing  of  whose  presence  thus,  at  their  own  request,  was 
granted  them  on  Easter  Bay,  1267. 

On  Candlemas,  if  you  recollect,  1251,  they  open  their  gates 
to  the  Germans  ; and  on  Easter,  1267,  to  the  French. 

260.  Remember,  then,  this  revolution,  as  coming  between 
the  battles  of  Welcome  and  Tagliacozzo  ; and  that  it  expresses 
the  lower  revolutionary  temper  of  the  trades,  with  English 
and  French  assistance.  Its  immediate  result  was  the  appoint- 
ment of  five  hundred  and  sixty  lawyers,  woolcombers,  and 
butchers,  to  deliberate  upon  all  State  questions, — under  which 
happy  ordinances  you  will  do  well,  in  your  own  reading,  to 

* The  seven  higher  arts  were,  Lawyers,  Physicians,  Bankers,  Mer- 
chants of  Foreign  Goods,  Wool  Manufacturers,  Silk  Manufacturers, 
Furriers.  The  five  lower  arts  were,  Retail  Sellers  of  Cloth,  Butchers, 
Shoemakers,  Masons  and  Carpenters,  Smiths. 


358 


VAL  D 'ARNO. 


leave  Florence,  that  you  may  watch,  for  a while,  darling  little 
Pisa,  all  on  fire  for  the  young  Conradin.  She  sent  ten  vessels 
across  the  Gulf  of  Genoa  to  fetch  him  ; received  his  cavalry 
in  her  plain  of  Sarzana  ; and  putting  five  thousand  of  her  own 
best  sailors  into  thirty  ships,  sent  them  to  do  what  they  could, 
all  down  the  coast  of  Italy.  Down  they  went ; startling  Gaeta 
with  an  attack  as  they  passed  ; found  Charles  of  Anjou’s 
French  and  Sicilian  fleet  at  Messina,  fought  it,  beat  it,  and 
burned  twenty-seven  of  its  ships. 

261.  Meantime,  the  Florentines  prospered  as  they  might 
with  their  religious-democratic  constitution, — until  the  death, 
in  the  odour  of  sanctity,  of  Charles  of  Anjou,  and  of  that 
Pope  Martin  IY.  whose  tomb  was  destroyed  with  Urban’s  at 
Perugia.  Martin  died,  as  you  may  remember,  of  eating 
Bolsena  eels, — that  being  his  share  in  the  miracles  of  the  lake  ; 
and  you  will  do  well  to  remember  at  the  same  time,  that  the 
price  of  the  lake  eels  was  three  soldi  a pound  ; and  that  Nic- 
cola  of  Pisa  worked  at  Siena  for  six  soldi  a day,  and  his  son 
Giovanni  for  four. 

262.  And  as  I must  in  this  place  bid  farewell,  for  a time,  to 
Niccola  and  to  his  son,  let  me  remind  you  of  the  large  com- 
mission which  the  former  received  on  the  occasion  of  the  bat- 
tle of  Tagliacozzo,  and  its  subsequent  massacres,  when  the 
victor,  Charles,  having  to  his  own  satisfaction  exterminated 
the  seed  of  infidelity,  resolves,  both  in  thanksgiving,  and  for 
the  sake  of  the  souls  of  the  slain  knights  for  whom  some  hope 
might  yet  be  religiously  entertained,  to  found  an  abbey  on 
the  battle-field.  In  which  purpose  he  sent  for  Niccola  to 
Naples,  and  made  him  build  on  the  field  of  Tagliacozzo,  a 
church  and  abbey  of  the  richest ; and  caused  to  be  buried 
therein  the  infinite  number  of  the  bodies  of  those  who  died  in 
that  battle  day  ; ordering  farther,  that,  by  many  monks, 
prayer  should  be  made  for  their  souls,  night  and  day.  In 
which  fabric  the  king  was  so  pleased  with  Niccola’s  work  that 
he  rewarded  and  honoured  him  highly. 

263.  Do  you  not  begin  to  wonder  a little  more  what  manner 
of  man  this  Nicholas  was,  who  so  obediently  throws  down  the 
towers  which  offend  the  Ghibellines,  and  so  skilfully  puts  up 


FLEUR  BE  LYS. 


359 


the  pinnacles  which  please  the  Guelphs  ? A passive  power, 
seemingly,  he  ; — plastic  in  the  hands  of  any  one  who  will 
employ  him  to  build,  or  to  throw  down.  On  what  exists  of 
evidence,  demonstrably  in  these  years  here  is  the  strongest 
brain  of  Italy,  thus  for  six  shilling  a day  doing  what  it  is 
bid. 

264.  I take  farewell  of  him  then,  for  a little  time,  ratifying 
to  you,  as  far  as  my  knowledge  permits,  the  words  of  my  first 
master  in  Italian  art,  Lord  Lindsay. 

“ In  comparing  the  advent  of  Niccola  Pisano  to  that  of  the 
sun  at  his  rising,  I am  conscious  of  no  exaggeration  ; on  the 
contrary,  it  is  the  only  simile  by  which  I can  hope  to  give  you 
an  adequate  impression  of  his  brilliancy  and  power  relatively 
to  the  age  in  which  he  flourished.  Those  sons  of  Erebus, 
the  American  Indians,  fresh  from  their  traditional  subterranean 
world,  and  gazing  for  the  first  time  on  the  gradual  dawning 
of  the  day  in  the  East,  could  not  have  been  more  dazzled,  more 
astounded,  when  the  sun  actually  appeared,  than  the  popes 
and  podestas,  friars  and  freemasons  must  have  been  in  the 
thirteenth  century,  when  from  among  the  Biduinos,  Bonannos, 
and  Antealmis  of  the  twelfth,  Niccola  emerged  in  his  glory, 
sovereign  and  supreme,  a fount  of  light,  diffusing  warmth  and 
radiance  over  Christendom.  It  might  be  too  much  to  parallel 
him  in  actual  genius  with  Dante  and  Shakspeare  ; they  stand 
alone  and  unapproachable,  each  on  his  distinct  pinnacle  of 
the  temple  of  Christian  song  ; and  yet  neither  of  them  can 
boast  such  extent  and  durability  of  influence,  for  whatever  of 
highest  excellence  has  been  achieved  in  sculpture  and  paint- 
ing, not  in  Italy  only,  but  throughout  Europe,  has  been  in 
obedience  to  the  impulse  he  primarily  gave,  and  in  following 
up  the  principle  which  he  first  struck  out. 

“His  latter  days  were  spent  in  repose  at  Pisa,  but  the 
precise  year  of  his  death  is  uncertain  ; Vasari  fixes  it  in  1275  ; 
it  could  not  have  been  much  later.  He  was  buried  in  the 
Campo  Santo.  Of  his  personal  character  we,  alas  ! know 
nothing  ; even  Shakspeare  is  less  a stranger  to  us.  But  that 
it  was  noble,  simple,  and  consistent,  and  free  from  the  petty 
foibles  that  too  frequently  beset  genius,  may  be  fairly  pre- 


360 


VAL  D 'ARNO. 


sumed  from  the  works  he  has  left  behind  him,  and  from  th6 
eloquent  silence  of  tradition.” 

265.  Of  the  circumstances  of  Niccola  Pisano’s  death,  or  the 
ceremonials  practised  at  it,  we  are  thus  left  in  ignorance. 

The  more  exemplary  death  of  Charles  of  Anjou  took  place 
on  the  7th  of  January,  then,  1285  ; leaving  the  throne  of 
Naples  to  a boy  of  twelve  ; and  that  of  Sicily,  to  a Prince  of 
Spain.  Various  discord,  between  French,  Spanish,  and 
Calabrese  vices,  thenceforward  paralyzes  South  Italy,  and 
Florence  becomes  the  leading  power  of  the  Guelph  faction. 
She  had  been  inflamed  and  pacified  through  continual  par- 
oxysms of  civil  quarrel  during  the  decline  of  Charles’s  power  ; 
but,  throughout,  the  influence  of  the  nobles  declines,  by 
reason  of  their  own  folly  and  insolence  ; while  the  people, 
though  with  no  small  degree  of  folly  and  insolence  on  their 
own  side,  keep  hold  of  their  main  idea  of  justice.  In  the 
meantime,  similar  assertions  of  law  against  violence,  and  the 
nobility  of  useful  occupation,  as  compared  with  that  of  idle 
rapine,  take  place  in  Bologna,  Siena,  and  even  at  Home,  where 
Bologna  sends  her  senator,  Branca  Leone,  (short  for  Branca- 
di-Leone,  Lion’s  Grip,)  whose  inflexible  and  rightly  guarded 
reign  of  terror  to  all  evil  and  thievish  persons,  noble  or  other, 
is  one  of  the  few  passages  of  history  during  the  middle  ages, 
in  which  the  real  power  of  civic  virtue  may  be  seen  exercised 
without  warping  by  party  spirit,  or  weakness  of  vanity  or  fear. 

266.  And  at  last,  led  by  a noble,  Giano  della  Bella,  the 
people  of  Florence  write  and  establish  their  final  condem- 
nation of  noblesse  living  by  rapine,  those  ‘ Ordinamenti  della 
Giustizia,’  which  practically  excluded  all  idle  persons  from 
government,  and  determined  that  the  priors,  or  leaders  of  the 
State,  should  be  priors,  or  leaders  of  its  arts  and  productive 
labour ; that  its  head  * podesta  ’ or  4 power  ’ should  be  the 
standard-bearer  of  justice  ; and  its  council  or  parliament  com- 
posed of  charitable  men,  or  good  men:  “boni  viri,”  in  the 
sense  from  which  the  French  formed  their  noun  ‘bonte.’ 

The  entire  governing  body  was  thus  composed,  first,  of  the 
Podestas,  standard-bearer  of  justice  ; then  of  his  military  cap- 
tain ; then  of  his  lictor,  or  executor  ; then  of  the  twelve  priora 


FLEUR  RE  LYS. 


3G1 


of  arts  and  liberties — properly,  deliberators  on  the  daily  oc- 
cupations, interests,  and  pleasures  of  the  body  politic  ; — and, 
finally,  of  the  parliament  of  “ kind  men,”  whose  business  was 
to  determine  what  kindness  could  be  shown  to  other  states, 
by  way  of  foreign  policy. 

267.  So  perfect  a type  of  national  government  has  only 
once  been  reached  in  the  history  of  the  human  race.  And  in 
spite  of  the  seeds  of  evil  in  its  own  impatience,  and  in  the 
gradually  increasing  worldliness  of  the  mercantile  body ; in 
spite  of  the  hostility  of  the  angry  soldier,  and  the  malignity 
of  the  sensual  priest,  this  government  gave  to  Europe  the 
entire  cycle  of  Christian  art,  properly  so  called,  and  every 
highest  Master  of  labour,  architectural,  scriptural,  or  pictori- 
al, practised  in  true  understanding  of  the  faith  of  Christ ; — 
Orcagna,  Giotto,  Brunelleschi,  Lionardo,  Luini  as  his  pupil, 
Lippi,  Luca,  Angelico,  Botticelli,  and  Michael  Angelo. 

268.  I have  named  two  men,  in  this  group,  whose  names 
are  more  familiar  to  your  ears  than  any  others,  Angelico  and 
Michael  Angelo  ; — who  yet  are  absent  from  my  list  of  those 
whose  works  I wish  you  to  study,  being  both  extravagant  in 
their  enthusiasm, — the  one  for  the  nobleness  of  the  spirit, 
and  the  other  for  that  of  the  flesh.  I name  them  now,  be- 
cause the  gifts  each  had  were  exclusively  Florentine  ; in 
whatever  they  have  become  to  the  mind  of  Europe  since,  they 
are  utterly  children  of  the  Yal  d’Arno. 

269.  You  are  accustomed,  too  carelessly,  to  think  of  An- 
gelico as  a child  of  the  Church,  rather  than  of  Florence.  He 
was  born  in  1387, — just  eleven  years,  that  is  to  say,  after  the 
revolt  of  Florence  against  the  Church,  and  ten  after  the  en- 
deavour of  the  Church  to  recover  her  power  by  the  massa- 
cres of  Faenza  and  Cesena.  A French  and  English  army  of 
pillaging  riders  were  on  the  other  side  of  the  Alps, — six 
thousand  strong  ; the  Pope  sent  for  it ; Bobert  Cardinal  of 
Geneva  brought  it  into  Italy.  The  Florentines  fortified  their 
Apennines  against  it ; but  it  took  winter  quarters  at  Cesena, 
where  the  Cardinal  of  Geneva  massacred  five  thousand  per- 
sons in  a day,  and  the  children  and  sucklings  were  literally 
dashed  against  the  stones. 


362 


VAL  D 'ARNO. 


270.  That  was  the  school  which  the  Christian  Church  had 
prepared  for  their  brother  Angelico.  But  Fesole,  secluding 
him  in  the  shade  of  her  mount  of  Olives,  and  Florence  re- 
vealing to  him  the  true  voice  of  his  Master,  in  the  temple  of 
St.  Mary  of  the  Flower,  taught  him  his  lesson  of  peace  on 
earth,  and  permitted  him  his  visions  of  rapture  in  heaven. 
And  when  the  massacre  of  Cesena  was  found  to  have  been  in 
vain,  and  the  Church  was  compelled  to  treat  with  the  re- 
volted cities  who  had  united  to  mourn  for  her  victories, 
Florence  sent  her  a living  saint,  Catherine  of  Siena,  for  her 
political  Ambassador. 

271.  Of  Michael  Angelo  I need  not  tell  you  : of  the  others, 
we  will  read  the  lives,  and  think  over  them  one  by  one  ; the 
great  fact  which  I have  written  this  course  of  lectures  to  en- 
force upon  your  minds  is  the  dependence  of  all  the  arts  on 
the  virtue  of  the  State,  and  its  kindly  order. 

The  absolute  mind  and  state  of  Florence,  for  the  seventy 
years  of  her  glory,  from  1280  to  1350,  you  find  quite  simply 
and  literally  described  in  the  112th  Psalm,  of  which  I read 
you  the  descriptive  verses,  in  the  words  in  which  they  sang 
it,  from  this  typically  perfect  manuscript  of  the  time  : — 


Gloria  et  divitie  in  domo  ejus,  justitia  ejus  manet  in  secnlum  secnlL 
Exortum  est  in  tenebris  lumen  rectis,  misericors,  et  miserator,  et  justus. 
Jocundus  bomo,  qui  miseretur,  et  commodat : disponet  sermones  suos 
in  judicio. 

Dispersit,  dedit  pauperibus  ; justitia  ejus  manet  in  secnlum  seculi ; 
cornu  ejus  exaltabitur  in  gloria. 

I translate  simply,  praying  you  to  note  as  the  true  one,  the 
literal  meaning  of  every  word  : — 

Glory  and  ricbes  are  in  bis  bouse.  His  justice  remains  for  ever. 

Light  is  risen  in  darkness  for  tbe  straightforward  people. 

He  is  merciful  in  heart,  merciful  in  deed,  and  just. 

A jocund  man  ; who  is  merciful,  and  lends. 

He  will  dispose  bis  words  in  judgment. 

He  bath  dispersed.  He  bath  given  to  the  poor.  His  justice  remains 
for  ever  His  born  shall  be  exalted  in  glory. 


FLEUR  BE  LTS. 


363 


272.  With  vacillating,  but  steadily  prevailing  effort,  the 
Florentines  maintained  this  life  and  character  for  full  half  a 
century. 

You  will  please  now  look  at  my  staff  of  the  year  1300,* 
adding  the  names  of  Dante  and  Orcagna,  having  each  their 
separate  masterful  or  prophetic  function. 

That  is  Florence’s  contribution  to  the  intellectual  work  of 
the  world  during  these  years  of  justice.  Now,  the  promise  of 
Christianity  is  given  with  lesson  from  the  fleur-de-lys  : Seek 
ye  first  the  royalty  of  God,  and  His  justice,  “ and  all  these 
things,”  material  wealth,  “ shall  be  added  unto  you.”  It  is  a 
perfectly  clear,  perfectly  literal, — never  failing  and  never  un- 
fulfilled promise.  There  is  no  instance  in  the  whole  cycle  of 
history  of  its  not  being  accomplished, — fulfilled  to  the  utter- 
most, with  full  measure,  pressed  down,  and  running  over. 

273.  Now  hear  what  Florence  was,  and  what  wealth  she 
had  got  by  her  justice.  In  the  year  1330,  before  she  fell,  she 
had  within  her  walls  a hundred  and  fifty  thousand  inhabi- 
tants, of  whom  all  the  men — (laity) — between  the  ages  of  fif- 
teen and  seventy,  were  ready  at  an  instant  to  go  out  to  war, 
under  their  banners,  in  number  twenty-four  thousand.  The 
army  of  her  entire  territory  was  eighty  thousand  ; and  within 
it  she  counted  fifteen  hundred  noble  families,  every  one 
absolutely  submissive  to  her  gonfalier  of  justice.  She  had 
within  her  walls  a hundred  and  ten  churches,  seven  priories, 
and  thirty  hospitals  for  the  sick  and  poor  ; of  foreign  guests, 
on  the  average,  fifteen  hundred,  constantly.  From  eight  to 
ten  thousand  children  were  taught  to  read  in  her  schools. 
The  town  was  surrounded  by  some  fifty  square  miles  of  un- 
interrupted garden,  of  olive,  corn,  vine,  lily,  and  rose. 

And  the  monetary  existence  of  England  and  France  de- 
pended upon  her  wealth.  Two  of  her  bankers  alone  had  lent 
Edward  HI.  of  England  five  millions  of  money  (in  sterling 
value  of  this  present  hour). 

274.  On  the  10th  of  March,  1337,  she  was  first  accused, 
with  truth,  of  selfish  breach  of  treaties.  On  the  10th  of  April, 
all  her  merchants  in  France  were  imprisoned  by  Philip  of 

* Page  38  in  my  second  lecture  on  Engraving, 


364 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


Valois  ; and  presently  afterwards  Edward  of  England  failed, 
quite  in  your  modern  style,  for  his  five  millions.  These 
money  losses  would  have  been  nothing  to  her ; but  on  the 
7th  of  August,  the  captain  of  her  army,  Pietro  de’  Rossi  of 
Parma,  the  unquestioned  best  knight  in  Italy,  received  a 
chance  spear-stroke  before  Monselice,  and  died  next  day.  He 
was  the  Bayard  of  Italy ; and  greater  than  Bayard,  because 
living  in  a nobler  time.  He  never  had  failed  in  any  military 
enterprise,  nor  ever  stained  success  with  cruelty  or  shame. 
Even  the  German  troops  under  him  loved  him  without  bounds. 
To  his  companions  he  gave  gifts  with  such  largesse,  that  his 
horse  and  armour  were  all  that  at  any  time  he  called  his  own. 
Beautiful  and  pure  as  Sir  Galahad,  all  that  was  brightest  in 
womanhood  watched  and  honoured  him. 

And  thus,  8th  August,  1337,  he  went  to  his  own  place. — 
To-day  I trace  the  fall  of  Florence  no  more. 

I will  review  the  points  I wish  you  to  remember  ; and 
briefly  meet,  so  far  as  I can,  the  questions  which  I think 
should  occur  to  you. 

275.  I have  named  Edward  HI.  as  our  heroic  type  of  Fran- 
chise. And  yet  I have  but  a minute  ago  spoken  of  him  as 
* failing  * in  quite  your  modern  manner.  I must  correct  my 
expression  : — he  had  no  intent  of  failing  when  he  borrowed  ; 
and  did  not  spend  his  money  on  himself.  Nevertheless,  I 
gave  him  as  an  example  of  frankness ; but  by  no  means  of 
honesty.  He  is  simply  the  boldest  and  royalest  of  Free 
Riders  ; the  campaign  of  Crecy  is,  throughout,  a mere  pil- 
laging foray.  And  the  first  point  I wish  you  to  notice  is 
the  difference  in  the  pecuniary  results  of  living  by  rob- 
bery, like  Edward  HI.,  or  by  agriculture  and  just  commerce, 
like  the  town  of  Florence.  That  Florence  can  lend  five  mill- 
ions to  the  King  of  England,  and  loose  them  with  little  care, 
is  the  result  of  her  olive  gardens  and  her  honesty.  Now  hear 
the  financial  phenomena  attending  military  exploits,  and  a life 
of  pillage. 

276.  I give  you  them  in  this  precise  year,  1338,  in  which 
the  King  of  England  failed  to  the  Florentines. 

“ He  obtained  from  the  prelates,  barons,  and  knights  of  the 


Plate  X.— The  Nativity.  Giovanni  Pisano. 


FLEUR  BE  LY8. 


365 


shires,  one  half  of  their  wool  for  this  year — a very  valuable 
and  extraordinary  grant.  He  seized  all  the  tin  ” (above-ground, 
you  mean  Mr.  Henry !)  “in  Cornwall  and  Devonshire,  took 
possession  of  the  lands  of  all  priories  alien,  and  of  the  money, 
jewels,  and  valuable  effects  of  the  Lombard  merchants.  He 
demanded  certain  quantities  of  bread,  com,  oats,  and  bacon, 
from  each  county ; borrowed  their  silver  plate  from  many 
abbeys,  as  well  as  great  sums  of  money  both  abroad  and  at 
home  ; and  pawned  his  crown  for  fifty  thousand  florins.”  * 

He  pawns  his  queen’s  jewels  next  year  ; and  finally  sum- 
mons all  the  gentlemen  of  England  who  had  forty  pounds  a 
year,  to  come  and  receive  the  honour  of  knighthood,  or  pay  to 
be  excused  ! 

277.  H.  The  failures  of  Edward,  or  of  twenty  Edwards, 
would  have  done  Florence  no  harm,  had  she  remained  true  to 
herself,  and  to  her  neighbouring  states.  Her  merchants  only 
fall  by  their  own  increasing  avarice ; and  above  all  by  the 
mercantile  form  of  pillage,  usury.  The  idea  that  money  could 
beget  money,  though  more  absurd  than  alchemy,  had  yet  an 
apparently  practical  and  irresistibly  tempting  confirmation  in 
the  wealth  of  villains,  and  the  success  of  fools.  Alchemy,  in 
its  day,  led  to  pure  chemistry ; and  calmly  yielded  to  the 
science  it  had  fostered.  But  all  wholesome  indignation 
against  usurers  was  prevented,  in  the  Christian  mind,  by 
wicked  and  cruel  religious  hatred  of  the  race  of  Christ.  In 
the  end,  Shakspeare  himself,  in  his  fierce  effort  against  the 
madness,  suffered  himself  to  miss  his  mark  by  making  his 
usurer  a Jew  : the  Franciscan  institution  of  the  Mount  of 
Pity  failed  before  the  lust  of  Lombardy,  and  the  logic  of 
Augsburg ; and,  to  this  day,  the  worship  of  the  Immaculate 
Virginity  of  Money,  mother  of  the  Omnipotence  of  Money,  is 
the  Protestant  form  of  Madonna  worship. 

278.  IH.  The  usurer’s  fang,  and  the  debtor’s  shame,  might 
both  have  been  trodden  down  under  the  feet  of  Italy,  had  her 
knights  and  her  workmen  remained  true  to  each  other.  But 
the  brotherhoods  of  Italy  were  not  of  Cain  to  Abel — but  of 
Cain  to  Cain.  Every  man’s  sword  was  against  his  fellow. 

* Henry’s  “History  of  England/’  book  iv.,  chap.  i. 


366 


VAL  D 'ARNO. 


Pisa  sank  before  Genoa  at  Meloria,  the  Italian  JEgos-Potamos ; 
Genoa  before  Venice  in  the  war  of  Chiozza,  the  Italian  siege 
of  Syracuse.  Florence  sent  her  Brunelleschi  to  divert  the 
waves  of  Serchio  against  the  walls  of  Lucca ; Lucca  her  Cas- 
truccio,  to  hold  mock  tournaments  before  the  gates  of  van- 
quished Florence.  The  weak  modern  Italian  reviles  or  bewails 
the  acts  of  foreign  races,  as  if  his  destiny  had  depended  upon 
these ; let  him  at  least  assume  the  pride,  and  bear  the  grief, 
of  remembering  that,  among  all  the  virgin  cities  of  his  coun- 
try, there  has  not  been  one  which  would  not  ally  herself  with 
a stranger,  to  effect  a sister’s  ruin. 

279.  Lastly.  The  impartiality  with  which  I have  stated  the 
acts,  so  far  as  known  to  me,  and  impulses,  so  far  as  discerni- 
ble by  me,  of  the  contending  Church  and  Empire,  cannot  but 
give  offence,  or  provoke  suspicion,  in  the  minds  of  those 
among  you  who  are  accustomed  to  hear  the  cause  of  Religion 
supported  by  eager  disciples,  or  attacked  by  confessed  ene- 
mies. My  confession  of  hostility  would  be  open,  if  I were  an 
enemy  indeed ; but  I have  never  possessed  the  knowledge, 
and  have  long  ago  been  cured  of  the  pride,  which  makes  men 
fervent  in  witness  for  the  Church’s  virtue,  or  insolent  in  decla- 
mation against  her  errors.  The  will  of  Heaven,  which  grants 
the  grace  and  ordains  the  diversities  of  Religion,  needs  no 
defence,  and  sustains  no  defeat,  by  the  humours  of  men  ; and 
our  first  business  in  relation  to  it  is  to  silence  our  wishes,  and 
to  calm  our  fears.  If,  in  such  modest  and  disciplined  temper, 
you  arrange  your  increasing  knowledge  of  the  history  of  man- 
kind, you  will  have  no  final  difficulty  in  distinguishing  the 
operation  of  the  Master’s  law  from  the  consequences  of  the 
disobedience  to  it  which  He  permits ; nor  will  you  respect 
the  law  less,  because,  accepting  only  the  obedience  of  love,  it 
neither  hastily  punishes,  nor  pompously  rewards,  with  what 
men  think  reward  or  chastisement  Not  always  under  the 
feet  of  Korah  the  earth  is  rent ; not  always  at  the  call  of  Elijah 
the  clouds  gather  ; but  the  guarding  mountains  for  ever  stand 
round  about  Jerusalem  ; and  the  rain,  miraculous  evermore, 
makes  green  the  fields  for  the  evil  and  the  good. 

280.  And  if  you  will  fix  your  minds  only  on  the  conditions 


FLEUR  DE  LY8. 


367 


of  human  life  which  the  Giver  of  it  demands,  “ He  hath  shown 
thee,  oh  man,  what  is  good,  and  what  doth  thy  Lord  require 
of  thee,  but  to  do  justice,  and  to  love  mercy,  and  to  walk 
humbly  with  thy  God,”  you  will  find  that  such  obedience  is 
always  acknowledged  by  temporal  blessing.  If,  turning  from 
the  manifest  miseries  of  cruel  ambition,  and  manifest  wander- 
ings of  insolent  belief,  you  summon  to  your  thoughts  rather 
the  state  of  unrecorded  multitudes,  who  laboured  in  silence, 
and  adored  in  humility,  widely  as  the  snows  of  Christendom 
brought  memory  of  the  Birth  of  Christ,  or  her  spring  sun- 
shine, of  His  Resurrection,  you  may  know  that  the  promise 
of  the  Bethlehem  angels  has  been  literally  fulfilled  ; and  will 
pray  that  your  English  fields,  joyfully  as  the  banks  of  Arno, 
may  still  dedicate  their  pure  lilies  to  St.  Mary  of  the  Flower. 


APPENDIX. 


(NOTES  ON  THE  PLATES  ILLUSTRATING  THIS  VOLUME.) 

In  the  delivery  of  the  preceding  Lectures,  some  account 
was  given  of  the  theologic  design  of  the  sculptures  by  Gio- 
vanni Pisano  at  Orvieto,  which  I intended  to  have  printed 
separately,  and  in  more  complete  form,  in  this  Appendix. 
But  my  strength  does  not  now  admit  of  my  fulfilling  the  half 
of  my  intentions,  and  I find  myself,  at  present,  tired,  and  so 
dead  in  feeling,  that  I have  no  quickness  in  interpretation,  or 
skill  in  description  of  emotional  work.  I must  content  my- 
self, therefore,  for  the  time,  with  a short  statement  of  the 
points  which  I wish  the  reader  to  observe  in  the  Plates,  and 
which  were  left  unnoticed  in  the  text. 

The  frontispiece  is  the  best  copy  I can  get,  in  permanent 
materials,  of  a photograph  of  the  course  of  the  Arno,  through 
Pisa,  before  the  old  banks  were  destroyed.  Two  arches  of 
the  Ponte-a-Mare  which  was  carried  away  in  the  inundation 
of  1870,  are  seen  in  the  distance  ; the  church  of  La  Spina,  in 
its  original  position  overhanging  the  river ; and  the  buttressed 
and  rugged  walls  of  the  mediaeval  shore.  Never  more,  any  of 
these,  to  be  seen  in  reality,  by  living  eyes. 

Plate  I. — A small  portion  of  a photograph  of  Nicolo 
Pisano’s  Adoration  of  the  Magi,  on  the  pulpit  of  the  Pisan 
Baptistery.  The  intensely  Greek  character  of  the  heads,  and 
the  severely  impetuous  chiselling  (learned  from  Late  Roman 
rapid  work),  which  drives  the  lines  of  the  drapery  nearly 
straight,  may  be  seen  better  in  a fragment  of  this  limited 
measure  than  in  the  crowded  massing  of  the  entire  subject. 
But  it  may  be  observed  also  that  there  is  both  a thoughtful- 


370 


VAL  D 'ARNO. 


ness  and  a tenderness  in  the  features,  whether  of  the  "Virgin 
or  the  attendant  angel,  which  already  indicate  an  aim  beyond 
that  of  Greek  art. 

Plate  H — The  Pulpit  of  the  Baptistery  (of  which  the  pre- 
ceding plate  represents  a portion).  I have  only  given  this 
general  view  for  convenience  of  reference.  Beautiful  photo- 
graphs of  the  subject  on  a large  scale  are  easily  attainablo. 

Plate  ITT. — The  Fountain  of  Perugia.  Executed  from  a 
sketch  by  Mr.  Arthur  Severn.  The  perspective  of  the  steps 
is  not  quite  true  ; we  both  tried  to  get  it  right,  but  found 
that  it  would  be  a day  or  two’s  work,  to  little  purpose, — and 
so  let  them  go  at  hazard.  The  inlaid  pattern  behind  is  part 
of  the  older  wall  of  the  cathedral ; the  late  door  is  of  course 
inserted. 

Plate  IV.,  Lettek  E. — From  Norman  Bible  in  the  British 
Museum  ; showing  the  moral  temper  which  regulated  common 
ornamentation  in  the  twelfth  century. 

Plate  V. — Door  of  the  Baptistery  at  Pisa.  The  reader 
must  note  that,  although  these  plates  are  necessarily,  in  fine- 
ness of  detail,  inferior  to  the  photographs  from  which  they 
are  taken,  they  have  the  inestimable  advantage  of  permanence, 
and  will  not  fade  away  into  spectres  when  the  book  is  old.  I 
am  greatly  puzzled  by  the  richness  of  the  current  ornamenta- 
tion on  the  main  pillars,  as  opposed  to  the  general  severity  of 
design.  I never  can  understand  how  the  men  who  indulged 
in  this  flowing  luxury  of  foliage  were  so  stem  in  their  masonry 
and  figure-draperies. 

Plate  VI — Part  of  the  lintel  of  the  door  represented  on 
Plate  V.,  enlarged.  I intended,  in  the  Lecture  on  Marble 
Couchant,  to  have  insisted,  at  some  length,  on  the  decoration 
of  the  lintel  and  side-posts,  as  one  of  the  most  important 
phases  of  mystic  ecclesiastical  sculpture.  But  I find  the  ma- 
terials furnished  by  Lucca,  Pisa,  and  Florence,  for  such  an 
essay  are  far  too  rich  to  be  examined  cursorily  ; the  treatment 
even  of  this  single  lintel  could  scarcely  be  enough  explained 
in  the  close  of  the  Lecture.  I must  dwell  on  some  points  of 
it  now. 

Look  back  to  Section  175  in  “Aratra  Pentelici,”  giving 


APPENDIX. 


371 


statement  of  the  four  kinds  of  relief  in  sculpture.  The  up- 
permost of  these  plinths  is  of  the  kind  I have  called  ‘round 
relief  ’ ; you  might  strike  it  out  on  a coin.  The  lower  is 
‘ foliate  relief  ’ ; it  looks  almost  as  if  the  figures  had  been 
cut  out  Ox  one  layer  of  marble,  and  laid  against  another  be- 
hind it. 

The  uppermost,  at  the  distance  of  my  diagram,  or  in  nature 
itself,  would  scarcely  be  distinguished  at  a careless  glance 
from  an  egg-and-arrow  moulding.  You  could  not  have  a 
more  simple  or  forcible  illustration  of  my  statement  in  the 
first  chapter  of  “Aratra,”  that  the  essential  business  of  sculpt- 
ure is  to  produce  a series  of  agreeable  bosses  or  rounded 
surfaces  ; to  which,  if  possible,  some  meaning  may  afterwards 
be  attached.  In  the  present  instance,  every  egg  becomes  an 
angel,  or  evangelist,  and  every  arrow  a lily,  or  a wing.*  The 
whole  is  in  the  most  exquisitely  finished  Byzantine  style. 

I am  not  sure  of  being  right  in  my  interpretation  of  the 
meaning  of  these  figures  ; but  I think  there  can  be  little  ques- 
tion about  it.  There  are  eleven  altogether ; the  three  cen- 
tral, Christ  with  His  mother  and  St.  Joseph  ; then,  two  evan- 
gelists, with  two  alternate  angels,  on  each  side.  Each  of  these 
angels  carries  a rod,  with  a fleur-de-lys  termination  ; their 
wings  decorate  the  intermediate  ridges  (formed,  in  a pure 
Greek  moulding,  by  the  arrows)  ; and,  behind  the  heads  of 
all  the  figures,  there  is  now  a circular  recess ; once  filled,  I 
doubt  not,  by  a plate  of  gold.  The  Christ,  and  the  Evange- 
lists, all  carry  books,  of  which  each  has  a mosaic,  or  intaglio 
ornament,  in  the  shape  of  a cross.  I could  not  show  you  a 
more  severe  or  perfectly  representative  piece  of  architectural 
sculpture. 

The  heads  of  the  eleven  figures  are  as  simply  decorative  as 
the  ball  flowers  are  in  our  English  Gothic  tracery  ; the  slight 
irregularity  produced  by  different  gesture  and  character  giv- 
ing precisely  the  sort  of  change  which  a good  designer  wishes 
to  see  in  the  parts  of  a consecutive  ornament. 

* In  the  contemporary  south  door  of  the  Duomo  of  Genoa,  the  Greek 
moulding  is  used  without  any  such  transformation. 


372 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


The  moulding  closes  at  each  extremity  with  a palm-tree, 
correspondent  in  execution  with  those  on  coins  of  Syracuse  ; 
for  the  rest,  the  interest  of  it  consists  only  in  these  slight 
variations  of  attitude  by  which  the  figures  express  wonder  or 
concern  at  some  event  going  on  in  their  presence.  They  are 
looking  down  ; and  I do  not  doubt,  are  intended  to  be  the 
heavenly  witnesses  of  the  story  engraved  on  the  stone  below, 
— The  Life  and  Death  of  the  Baptist. 

The  lower  stone  on  which  this  is  related,  is  a model  of  skill 
in  Fiction,  properly  so  called.  In  Fictile  art,  in  Fictile  his- 
tory, it  is  equally  exemplary.  * Feigning  ’ or  * affecting  ’ in 
the  most  exquisite  way  by  fastening  intensely  on  the  princi- 
pal points. 

Ask  yourselves  what  are  the  principal  points  to  be  insisted 
on,  in  the  story  of  the  Baptist. 

He  came,  “ preaching  the  Baptism  of  Bepentance  for  the 
remission  of  sins.”  That  is  his  Advice,  or  Order-preaching. 

And  he  came,  “ to  bear  witness  of  the  Light.”  “ Behold  the 
Lamb  of  God,  which  taketh  away  the  sins  of  the  world.” 
That  is  his  declaration,  or  revelation-preaching. 

And  the  end  of  his  own  life  is  in  the  practice  of  this  preach- 
ing— if  you  will  think  of  it — under  curious  difficulties  in  both 
kinds.  Difficulties  in  putting  away  sin — difficulties  in  obtain- 
ing sight.  The  first  half  of  the  stone  begins  with  the  apoca- 
lyptic preaching.  Christ,  represented  as  in  youth,  is  set 
under  two  trees,  in  the  wilderness.  St.  John  is  scarcely  at 
first  seen  ; he  is  only  the  guide,  scarcely  the  teacher,  of  the 
crowd  of  peoples,  nations,  and  languages,  whom  he  leads, 
pointing  them  to  the  Christ.  Without  doubt,  all  these  figures 
have  separate  meaning.  I am  too  ignorant  to  interpret  it ; 
but  observe  generally,  they  are  the  thoughtful  and  wise  of  the 
earth,  not  its  ruffians  or  rogues.  This  is  not,  by  any  means, 
a general  amnesty  to  blackguards,  and  an  apocalypse  to 
brutes,  which  St.  John  is  preaching.  These  are  quite  the 
best  people  he  can  find  to  call,  or  advise.  You  see  many  of 
them  carry  rolls  of  paper  in  their  hands,  as  he  does  himself. 
In  comparison  with  the  books  of  the  upper  cornice,  these 
have  special  meaning,  as  throughout  Byzantine  design. 


APPENDIX. 


373 


“ Adverte  quod  patriarchse  et  prophetse  pinguntur  cum  ro- 
tulis  in  manibus  ; quidam  vero  apostoli  cum  libris,  et  quidam 
cum  rotulis.  Nempe  quia  ante  Christi  adventum  fides  figura- 
tive ostendebatur,  et  quoad  multa,  in  se  implicita  erat.  Ad 
quod  ostendendum  patriarchse  et  prophetse  pinguntur  cum  ro- 
tulis, per  quos  quasi  qusedam  imperfecta  cognitio  designatur  ; 
quia  vero  apostoli  a Christo  perfecte  edocti  sunt,  ideo  libris, 
per  quos  designatur  perfecta  cognitio,  uti  possunt.” 

William  Durandus,  quoted  by  Didron,  p.  305. 

Plate  YU. — Next  to  this  subject  of  the  preaching  comes  the 
Baptism : and  then,  the  circumstances  of  St.  John’s  death. 
First,  his  declaration  to  Herod,  “ It  is  not  lawful  for  thee  to 
have  thy  brother’s  wife  : ” on  which  he  is  seized  and  carried 
to  prison  : — next,  Herod’s  feast, — the  consultation  between 
daughter  and  mother,  “ What  shall  I ask  ? ’’—the  martyrdom, 
and  burial  by  the  disciples.  The  notable  point  in  the  treat- 
ment of  all  these  subjects  is  the  quiet  and  mystic  Byzantine 
dwelling  on  thought  rather  than  action.  In  a northern  sculpt- 
ure of  this  subject,  the  daughter  of  Herodias  would  have 
been  assuredly  dancing  ; and  most  probably,  casting  a somer- 
sault. With  the  Byzantine,  the  debate  in  her  mind  is  the 
only  subject  of  interest,  and  he  carves  above,  the  evil  angels, 
laying  their  hands  on  the  heads,  first  of  Herod  and  Herodias, 
and  then  of  Herodias  and  her  daughter. 

Plate  VIH. — The  issuing  of  commandment  not  to  eat  of 
the  tree  of  knowledge.  (Orvieto  Cathedral.) 

This,  with  Plates  X.  and  XH.,  will  give  a sufficiently  clear 
conception  to  any  reader  who  has  a knowledge  of  sculpture, 
of  the  principles  of  Giovanni  Pisano’s  design.  I have  thought 
it  well  worth  while  to  publish  opposite  two  of  them,  facsimiles 
of  the  engravings  which  profess  to  represent  them  in  Gruner’s 
monograph  * of  the  Orvieto  sculptures  ; for  these  outlines 
will,  once  for  all,  and  better  than  any  words,  show  my  pupils 
what  is  the  real  virue  of  mediaeval  work, — the  power  which 
we  medievalists  rejoice  in  it  for.  Precisely  the  qualities  which 

The  drawings  are  hy  some  Italian  draughtsman,  whose  name  it  is  no 
business  of  mine  to  notice. 


374 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


are  not  in  the  modem  drawings,  are  the  essential  virtues  of 
the  early  sculpture.  If  you  like  the  Gruner  outlines  best, 
you  need  not  trouble  yourself  to  go  to  Orvieto,  or  anywhere 
else  in  Italy.  Sculpture,  such  as  those  outlines  represent, 
can  be  supplied  to  you  by  the  acre,  to  order,  in  any  modern 
academician’s  atelier.  But  if  you  like  the  strange,  rude, 
quaint,  Gothic  realities  (for  these  photographs  are,  up  to  a 
certain  point,  a vision  of  the  reality)  best ; then,  don’t  study 
mediaeval  art  under  the  direction  of  modem  illustrators.  Look 
at  it — for  however  short  a time,  where  you  can  find  it — veri- 
table and  untouched,  however  mouldered  or  shattered.  And 
abhor,  as  you  would  the  mimicry  of  your  best  friend’s  man- 
ners by  a fool,  all  restorations  and  improving  copies.  For 
remember,  none  but  fools  think  they  can  restore — none,  but 
worse  fools,  that  they  can  improve. 

Examine  these  outlines,  then,  with  extreme  care,  and  point 
by  point.  The  things  which  they  have  refused  or  lost,  are  the 
things  you  have  to  love,  in  Giovanni  Pisano. 

I will  merely  begin  the  task  of  examination,  to  show  you 
how  to  set  about  it.  Take  the  head  of  the  commanding  Christ 
Although  inclined  forward  from  the  shoulders  in  the  advanc- 
ing motion  of  the  whole  body,  the  head  itself  is  not  stooped  ; 
but  held  entirely  upright,  the  line  of  forehead  sloping  back- 
wards. The  command  is  given  in  calm  authority  ; not  in 
mean  anxiety.  But  this  was  not  expressive  enough  for  the 
copyist, — “ How  much  better  I can  show  what  is  meant ! ” 
thinks  he.  So  he  puts  the  line  of  forehead  and  nose  upright ; 
projects  the  brow  out  of  its  straight  line  ; and  the  expression 
then  becomes, — “ Now,  be  very  careful,  and  mind  what  I say.” 
Perhaps  you  like  this  1 improved  ’ action  better  ? Be  it  so  ; 
only,  it  is  not  Giovanni  Pisano’s  design  ; but  the  modem 
Italian’s. 

Next,  take  the  head  of  Eve.  It  is  much  missed  in  the  pho- 
tograph— nearly  all  the  finest  lines  lost — but  enough  is  got  to 
show  Giovanni’s  mind. 

It  appears,  he  liked  long-headed  people,  with  sharp  chins 
and  straight  noses.  It  might  be  very  wrong  of  him  ; but  that 
was  his  taste.  So  much  so,  indeed,  that  Adam  and  Eve  have, 


Plate  XI. — Tile  Nativity.  Modern  Italian. 


APPENDIX.  375 

both  of  them,  heads  not  much  shorter  than  one-sixth  of  their 
entire  height. 

Your  modern  Academy  pupil,  of  course,  cannot  tolerate 
this  monstrosity.  He  indulgently  corrects  Giovanni,  and 
Adam  and  Eve  have  entirely  orthodox  one-eighth  heads,  by 
rule  of  schools. 

But  how  of  Eve’s  sharp-cut  nose  and  pointed  chin,  thin  lips, 
and  look  of  quiet  but  rather  surprised  attention — not  specially 
reverent,  but  looking  keenly  out  from  under  her  eyelids,  like  a 
careful  servant  receiving  an  order  ? 

Well — those  are  all  Giovanni’s  own  notions  ; — not  the  least 
classical,  nor  scientific,  nor  even  like  a pretty,  sentimental 
modern  woman.  Like  a Florentine  woman — in  Giovanni’s 
time — it  may  be  ; at  all  events,  very  certainly,  what  Giovanni 
thought  proper  to  carve. 

Now  examine  your  modern  edition.  An  entirely  proper 
Greco-Roman  academy  plaster  bust,  with  a proper  nose,  and 
proper  mouth,  and  a round  chin,  and  an  expression  of  the 
most  solemn  reverence  ; always,  of  course,  of  a classical  de- 
scription. Very  fine,  perhaps.  But  not  Giovanni. 

After  Eve’s  head,  let  us  look  at  her  feet.  Giovanni  has  his 
own  positive  notions  about  those  also.  Thin  and  bony,  to  ex- 
cess, the  right,  undercut  all  along,  so  that  the  profile  looks  as 
thin  as  the  mere  elongated  line  on  an  Etruscan  vase  ; and  the 
right  showing  the  five  toes  all  well  separate,  nearly  straight, 
and  the  larger  ones  almost  as  long  as  fingers  ! the  shin  bone 
above  carried  up  in  as  severe  and  sharp  a curve  as  the  edge  of 
a sword. 

Now  examine  the  modern  copy.  Beautiful  little  fleshy, 
Venus-de’-Medici  feet  and  toes — no  undercutting  to  the  right 
foot, — the  left  having  the  great-toe  properly  laid  over  the  sec- 
ond, according  to  the  ordinances  of  schools  and  shoes,  and  a 
well-developed  academic  and  operatic  calf  and  leg.  Again 
charming,  of  course.  But  only  according  to  Mr.  Gibson  or 
Mr.  Power — not  according  to  Giovanni. 

Farther,  and  finally,  note  the  delight  with  which  Giovanni 
has  dwelt,  though  without  exaggeration,  on  the  muscles  of  the 
breast  and  ribs  in  the  Adam  ; while  he  has  subdued  all  away 


376 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


into  virginal  severity  in  Eve.  And  then  note,  and  with  conclu. 
sive  admiration,  how  in  the  exact  and  only  place  where  the 
poor  modern  fool’s  anatomical  knowledge  should  have  been 
shown,  the  wretch  loses  his  hold  of  it ! How  he  has  entire- 
ly missed  and  effaced  the  grand  Greek  pectoral  muscles  of 
Giovanni’s  Adam,  but  has  studiously  added  what  mean  flesh- 
liness he  could  to  the  Eve  ; and  marked  with  black  spots  the 
nipple  and  navel,  where  Giovanni  left  only  the  severe  marble 
in  pure  light. 

These  instances  are  enough  to  enable  you  to  detect  the  in- 
solent changes  in  the  design  of  Giovanni  made  by  the  modern 
Academy-student  in  so  far  as  they  relate  to  form  absolute.  I 
must  farther,  for  a few  moments,  request  your  attention  to 
the  alterations  made  in  the  light  and  shade. 

You  may  perhaps  remember  some  of  the  passages.  They 
occur  frequently,  both  in  my  inaugural  lectures,  and  in 
“ Aratra  Pentelici,”  in  which  I have  pointed  out  the  essential 
connection  between  the  schools  of  sculpture  and  those  of  chi- 
aroscuro. I have  always  spoken  of  the  Greek,  or  essential- 
ly sculpture-loving  schools,  as  chiaroscurist ; always  of  the 
Gothic,  or  colour-loving  schools,  as  non-chiaroscurist.  And 
in  one  place,  (I  have  not  my  books  here,  and  cannot  refer  to 
it,)  I have  even  defined  sculpture  as  light-and-shade  drawing 
with  the  chisel.  Therefore,  the  next  point  you  have  to  look 
to,  after  the  absolute  characters  of  form,  is  the  mode  in  which 
the  sculptor  has  placed  his  shadows,  both  to  express  these, 
and  to  force  the  eye  to  the  points  of  his  composition  which  he 
wants  looked  at  You  cannot  possibly  see  a more  instructive 
piece  of  work,  in  these  respects,  than  Giovanni’s  design  of  the 
Nativity,  Plate  X.  So  far  as  I yet  know  Christian  art,  this  is 
the  central  type  of  the  treatment  of  the  subject ; it  has  all  the 
intensity  and  passion  of  the  earliest  schools,  together  with  a 
grace  of  repose  which  even  in  Ghiberti’s  beautiful  Nativity, 
founded  upon  it,  has  scarcely  been  increased,  but  rather  lost 
in  languor.  The  motive  of  the  design  is  the  frequent  one 
among  all  the  early  masters  ; the  Madonna  lifts  the  covering 
from  the  cradle  to  show  the  Child  to  one  of  the  servants,  who 
starts  forward  adoring.  All  the  light  and  shade  is  disposed 


Plate  XII. — The  Annunciation  and  Visitation. 


APPENDIX. 


377 


to  fix  the  eye  on  these  main  actions.  First,  one  intense 
deeply-cut  mass  of  shadow,  under  the  pointed  arch,  to  throw 
out  the  head  and  lifted  hand  of  the  Virgin.  A vulgar  sculptor 
would  have  cut  all  black  behind  the  head  ; Giovanni  begins 
with  full  shadow  ; then  subdues  it  with  drapery  absolutely 
quiet  in  fall ; then  lays  his  fullest  possible  light  on  the  head, 
the  hand,  and  the  edge  of  the  lifted  veil. 

He  has  undercut  his  Madonna’s  profile,  being  his  main  aim, 
too  delicately  for  time  to  spare  ; happily  the  deep-cut  brow  is 
left,  and  the  exquisitely  refined  line  above,  of  the  veil  and 
hair.  The  rest  of  the  work  is  uninjured,  and  the  sharpest 
edges  of  light  are  still  secure.  You  may  note  how  the  pas- 
sionate action  of  the  servant  is  given  by  the  deep  shadows 
under  and  above  her  arm,  relieving  its  curves  in  all  their 
length,  and  by  the  recess  of  shade  under  the  cheek  and  chin, 
which  lifts  the  face. 

Now  take  your  modern  student’s  copy,  and  look  how  he 
has  placed  his  lights  and  shades.  You  see,  they  go  as  nearly 
as  possible  exactly  where  Giovanni’s  don't.  First,  pure  white 
under  this  Gothic  arch,  where  Giovanni  has  put  his  fullest 
dark.  Secondly,  just  where  Giovanni  has  used  his  whole  art  of 
chiselling,  to  soften  his  stone  away,  and  show  the  wreaths  of 
the  Madonna’s  hair  lifting  her  veil  behind,  the  accursed  mod- 
ern blockhead  carves  his  shadow  straight  down,  because  he 
thinks  that  will  be  more  in  the  style  of  Michael  Angelo.  Then 
he  takes  the  shadows  away  from  behind  the  profile,  and  from 
under  the  chin,  and  from  under  the  arm,  and  puts  in  two  grand 
square  blocks  of  dark  at  the  ends  of  the  cradle,  that  you  may 
be  safe  to  look  at  that,  instead  of  the  Child.  Next,  he  takes 
it  all  away  from  under  the  servant’s  arms,  and  lays  it  all  be- 
hind above  the  calf  of  her  leg.  Then,  not  having  wit  enough 
to  notice  Giovanni’s  undulating  surface  beneath  the  drapery 
of  the  bed  on  the  left,  he  limits  it  with  a hard  parallel-sided 
bar  of  shade,  and  insists  on  the  vertical  fold  under  the  Ma- 
donna’s arm,  which  Giovanni  has  purposely  cut  flat  that  it 
may  not  interfere  with  the  arm  above  ; finally,  the  modern 
animal  has  missed  the  only  pieces  of  womanly  form  which 
Giovanni  admitted,  the  rounded  right  arm  and  softly  revealed 


378 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


breast ; and  absolutely  removed,  as  if  it  were  no  part  of  the 
composition,  the  horizontal  incision  at  the  base  of  all — out  of 
which  the  first  folds  of  the  drapery  rise. 

I cannot  give  you  any  better  example,  than  this  modem 
Academy-work,  of  the  total  ignorance  of  the  very  first  mean- 
ing of  the  word  ‘ Sculpture  ’ into  which  the  popular  schools  of 
existing  art  are  plunged.  I will  not  insist,  now,  on  the  useless- 
ness, or  worse,  of  their  endeavours  to  represent  the  older  art, 
and  of  the  necessary  futility  of  their  judgment  of  it.  The  con- 
clusions to  which  I wish  to  lead  you  on  these  points  will  be 
the  subject  of  future  lectures,  being  of  too  great  importance 
for  examination  here.  But  you  cannot  spend  your  time  in 
more  profitable  study  than  by  examining  and  comparing, 
touch  for  touch,  the  treatment  of  light  and  shadow  in  the 
figures  of  the  Christ  and  sequent  angels,  in  Plates  VJLLL.  and 
IX.,  as  we  have  partly  examined  those  of  the  subject  before 
us ; and  in  thus  assuring  yourself  of  the  uselessness  of  trust- 
ing to  any  ordinary  modem  copyists,  for  anything  more  than 
the  rudest  chart  or  map — and  even  that  inaccurately  surveyed 
— of  ancient  design. 

The  last  plate  given  in  this  volume  contains  the  two  love- 
ly subjects  of  the  Annunciation  and  Visitation,  which,  being 
higher  from  the  ground,  are  better  preserved  than  the  groups 
represented  in  the  other  plates.  They  will  be  found  to  justify, 
in  subtlety  of  chiselling,  the  title  I gave  to  Giovanni,  of  the 
Canova  of  the  thirteenth  century. 

I am  obliged  to  leave  without  notice,  at  present,  the  branch 
of  ivy,  given  in  illustration  of  the  term  4 marble  rampant,’  at 
the  base  of  Plate  VlLL.  The  foliage  of  Orvieto  can  only  be 
rightly  described  in  connection  with  the  great  scheme  of  leaf- 
ornamentation  which  ascended  from  the  ivy  of  the  Homeric 
period  in  the  sculptures  of  Cyprus,  to  the  roses  of  Botticelli, 
and  laurels  of  Bellini  and  Titian. 


THE 


PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND 


LECTURES  GIVEN  IN  OXFORD 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND 


LECTUEE  I 

THE  PLEASURES  OF  LEARNING. 

Bertha  to  Osburga. 

In  the  short  review  of  the  present  state  of  English  Art,  given 
you  last  year,  I left  necessarily  many  points  untouched,  and 
others  unexplained.  The  seventh  lecture,  which  I did  not 
think  it  necessary  to  read  aloud,  furnished  you  with  some  of 
the  corrective  statements  of  which,  whether  spoken  or  not,  it 
was  extremely  desirable  that  you  should  estimate  the  balanc- 
ing weight.  These  I propose  in  the  present  course  farther  to 
illustrate,  and  to  arrive  with  you  at,  I hope,  a just — you  would 
not  wish  it  to  be  a flattering — estimate  of  the  conditions  of 
our  English  artistic  life,  past  and  present,  in  order  that  with 
due  allowance  for  them  we  may  determine,  with  some  security, 
what  those  of  us  who  have  faculty  ought  to  do,  and  those 
who  have  sensibility,  to  admire. 

2.  In  thus  rightly  doing  and  feeling,  you  will  find  summed 
a wider  duty,  and  granted  a greater  power,  than  the  moral 
philosophy  at  this  moment  current  with  you  has  ever  con- 
ceived ; and  a prospect  opened  to  you  besides,  of  such  a Fut- 
ure for  England  as  you  may  both  hopefully  and  proudly 
labour  for  with  your  hands,  and  those  of  you  who  are  spared 
to  the  ordinary  term  of  human  life,  even  see  with  your  eyes, 
when  all  this  tumult  of  vain  avarice  and  idle  pleasure,  into 
which  you  have  been  plunged  at  birth,  shall  have  passed  into 
its  appointed  perdition. 


382 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


3.  I wish  that  you  would  read  for  introduction  to  the  lect- 
ures I have  this  year  arranged  for  you,  that  on  the  Future  of 
England,  which  I gave  to  the  cadets  at  Woolwich  in  the  first 
year  of  my  Professorship  here,  1869  ; and  which  is  now  placed 
as  the  main  conclusion  of  the  “ Crown  of  Wild  Olive  ” : and 
with  it,  very  attentively,  the  close  of  my  inaugural  lecture 
given  here  ; for  the  matter,  no  less  than  the  tenor  of  which, 
I was  reproved  by  all  my  friends,  as  irrelevant  and  ill-judged  ; 
— which,  nevertheless,  is  of  all  the  pieces  of  teaching  I have 
ever  given  from  this  chair,  the  most  pregnant  and  essential  to 
whatever  studies,  whether  of  Art  or  Science,  you  may  pursue, 
in  this  place  or  elsewhere,  during  your  lives. 

The  opening  words  of  that  passage  I will  take  leave  to  read 
to  you  again, — for  they  must  still  be  the  ground  of  whatever 
help  I can  give  you,  worth  your  acceptance. 

“ There  is  a destiny  now  possible  to  us — the  highest  ever 
set  before  a nation  to  be  accepted  or  refused.  We  are  still 
undegenerate  in  race : a race  mingled  of  the  best  northern 
blood.  We  are  not  yet  dissolute  in  temper,  but  still  have  the 
firmness  to  govern,  and  the  grace  to  obey.  We  have  been 
taught  a religion  of  pure  mercy,  which  we  must  either  now 
finally  betray,  or  learn  to  defend  by  fulfilling.  And  we  are 
rich  in  an  inheritance  of  honour,  bequeathed  to  us  through  a 
thousand  yeai-s  of  noble  history,  which  it  should  be  our  daily 
thirst  to  increase  with  splendid  avarice  ; so  that  Englishmen, 
if  it  be  a sin  to  covet  honour,  should  be  the  most  offending 
souls  alive.  Within  the  last  few  years  we  have  had  the  laws 
of  natural  science  opened  to  us  with  a rapidity  which  has 
been  blinding  by  its  brightness  ; and  means  of  transit  and 
communication  given  to  us,  which  have  made  but  one  king- 
dom of  the  habitable  globe. 

“ One  kingdom  ; — but  who  is  to  be  its  king  ? Is  there  to 
be  no  king  in  it,  think  you,  and  every  man  to  do  that  which 
is  right  in  his  own  eyes  ? Or  only  kings  of  terror,  and  the 
obscene  empires  of  Mammon  and  Belial  ? Or  will  you,  youths 
of  England,  make  your  country  again  a royal  throne  of  kings ; 
a sceptred  isle  ; for  all  the  world  a source  of  light,  a centre  of 
peace  ; mistress  of  Learning  and  of  the  Arts  ; — faithful  guar- 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  LEARNING. 


383 


dian  of  great  memories  in  the  midst  of  irreverent  and  ephem- 
eral visions — faithful  servant  of  time-tried  principles,  under 
temptation  from  fond  experiments  and  licentious  desires  ; and 
amidst  the  cruel  and  clamorous  jealousies  of  the  nations, 
worshipped  in  her  strange  valour,  of  goodwill  towards  men  ? ” 

The  fifteen  years  that  have  passed  since  I spoke  these  words 
must,  I think,  have  convinced  some  of  my  immediate  hearers 
that  the  need  for  such  an  appeal  was  more  pressing  than  they 
then  imagined  ; — while  they  have  also  more  and  more  con- 
vinced me  myself  that  the  ground  I took  for  it  was  secure, 
and  that  the  youths  and  girls  now  entering  on  the  duties  of 
active  life  are  able  to  accept  and  fulfil  the  hope  I then  held 
out  to  them. 

In  which  assurance  I ask  them  to-day  to  begin  the  examina- 
tion with  me,  very  earnestly,  of  the  question  laid  before  you 
in  that  seventh  of  my  last  year’s  lectures,  whether  London,  as 
it  is  now,  be  indeed  the  natural,  and  therefore  the  heaven- 
appointed  outgrowth  of  the  inhabitation,  these  1800  years,  of 
the  valley  of  the  Thames  by  a progressively  instructed  and 
disciplined  people  ; or  if  not,  in  what  measure  and  ' manner 
the  aspect  and  spirit  of  the  great  city  may  be  possibly  altered 
by  your  acts  and  thoughts. 

In  my  introduction  to  the  Economist  of  Xenophon  I said 
that  every  fairly  educated  European  boy  or  girl  ought  to  learn 
the  history  of  five  cities, — Athens,  Eome,  Venice,  Florence, 
and  London  ; that  of  London  including,  or  at  least  compelling 
in  parallel  study,  some  knowledge  also  of  the  history  of  Paris , 

A few  words  are  enough  to  explain  the  reasons  for  this 
choice.  The  history  of  Athens,  rightly  told,  includes  all  that 
need  be  known  of  Greek  religion  and  arts  ; that  of  Eome,  the 
victory  of  Christianity  over  Paganism  ; those  of  Venice  and 
Florence  sum  the  essential  facts  respecting  the  Christian  arts 
of  Painting,  Sculpture,  and  Music  ; and  that  of  London,  in 
her  sisterhood  with  Paris,  the  development  of  Christian  Chiv- 
alry and  Philosophy,  with  their  exponent  art  of  Gothic  archi- 
tecture. 

Without  the  presumption  of  forming  a distinct  design,  I yet 
hoped  at  the  time  when  this  division  of  study  was  suggested, 


384 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


with  the  help  of  my  pupils,  to  give  the  outlines  of  their  sev- 
eral histories  during  my  work  in  Oxford.  Variously  disap- 
pointed and  arrested,  alike  by  difficulties  of  investigation  and 
failure  of  strength,  I may  yet  hope  to  lay  down  for  you,  begin- 
ning with  your  own  metropolis,  some  of  the  lines  of  thought 
in  following  out  which  such  a task  might  be  most  effectively 
accomplished. 

You  observe  that  I speak  of  architecture  as  the  chief  expo- 
nent of  the  feelings  both  of  the  French  and  English  races. 
Together  with  it,  however,  most  important  evidence  of  char- 
acter is  given  by  the  illumination  of  manuscripts,  and  by 
some  forms  of  jewellery  and  metallurgy : and  my  purpose  in 
this  course  of  lectures  is  to  illustrate  by  all  these  arts  the 
phases  of  national  character  which  it  is  impossible  that  histo- 
rians should  estimate,  or  even  observe,  with  accuracy,  unless 
they  are  cognizant  of  excellence  in  the  aforesaid  modes  of 
structural  and  ornamental  craftsmanship. 

In  one  respect,  as  indicated  by  the  title  chosen  for  this 
course,  I have  varied  the  treatment  of  their  subject  from  that 
adopted  in  all  my  former  books.  Hitherto,  I have  always  en- 
deavoured to  illustrate  the  personal  temper  and  skill  of  the 
artist ; holding  the  wishes  or  taste  of  his  spectators  at  small 
account,  and  saying  of  Turner  you  ought  to  like  him,  and  of 
Salvator,  you  ought  not,  etc.,  etc.,  without  in  the  least  consid- 
ering what  the  genius  or  instinct  of  the  spectator  might  other- 
wise demand,  or  approve.  But  in  the  now  attempted  sketch 
of  Christian  history,  I have  approached  every  question  from 
the  people’s  side,  and  examined  the  nature,  not  of  the  special 
faculties  by  which  the  work  was  produced,  but  of  the  general 
instinct  by  which  it  was  asked  for,  and  enjoyed.  Therefore  I 
thought  the  proper  heading  for  these  papers  should  represent 
them  as  descriptive  of  the  Pleasures  of  England,  gather  than 
of  its  Arts. 

And  of  these  pleasures,  necessarily,  the  leading  one  was 
that  of  Learning,  in  the  sense  of  receiving  instruction  ; — a 
pleasure  totally  separate  from  that  of  finding  out  things  for 
yourself, — and  an  extremely  sweet  and  sacred  pleasure,  when 
you  know  how  to  seek  it,  and  receive. 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  LEARNING. 


385 


On  which  I am  the  more  disposed,  and  even  compelled, 
here  to  insist,  because  your  modern  ideas  of  Development 
imply  that  you  must  all  turn  out  what  you  are  to  be,  and  find 
out  what  you  are  to  know,  for  yourselves,  by  the  inevitable 
operation  of  your  anterior  affinities  and  inner  consciences  : — 
whereas  the  old  idea  of  education  was  that  the  baby  material 
of  you,  however  accidentally  or  inevitably  born,  was  at 
least  to  be  by  external  force,  and  ancestral  knowledge,  bred  ; 
and  treated  by  its  Fathers  and  Tutors  as  a plastic  vase,  to  be 
shaped  or  mannered  as  they  chose,  not  as  it  chose,  and  filled, 
when  its  form  was  well  finished  and  baked,  with  sweetness  of 
sound  doctrine,  as  with  Hybla  honey,  or  Arabian  spikenard. 

Without  debating  how  far  these  two  modes  of  acquiring 
knowledge — finding  out,  and  being  told — may  severally  be 
good,  and  in  perfect  instruction  combined,  I have  to  point  out 
to  you  that,  broadly,  Athens,  Rome,  and  Florence  are  self- 
taught,  and  internally  developed  ; while  all  the  Gothic  races, 
without  any  exception,  but  especially  those  of  London  and 
Paris,  are  afterwards  taught  by  these  ; and  had,  therefore, 
when  they  chose  to  accept  it,  the  delight  of  being  instructed, 
without  trouble  or  doubt,  as  fast  as  they  could  read  or  imi- 
tate ; and  brought  forward  to  the  point  where  their  own 
northern  instincts  might  wholesomely  superimpose  or  graft 
some  national  ideas  upon  these  sound  instructions.  Read 
over  what  I said  on  this  subject  in  the  third  of  my  lectures 
last  year,  and  simplify  that  already  brief  statement  further, 
by  fastening  in  your  mind  Carlyle’s  general  symbol  of  the 
best  attainments  of  northern  religious  sculpture, — “three 
wrhale-cubs  combined  by  boiling,”  and  reflecting  that  the  men- 
tal history  of  all  northern  European  art  is  the  modification  of 
that  graceful  type,  under  the  orders  of  the  Athena  of  Homer 
and  Phidias. 

And  this  being  quite  indisputably  the  broad  fact  of  the  mat- 
ter, I greatly  marvel  that  your  historians  never,  so  far  as  I have 
read,  think  of  proposing  to  you  the  question — what  you  might 
have  made  of  yourselves  without  the  help  of  Homer  and  Phid- 
ias : what  sort  of  beings  the  Saxon  and  the  Celt,  the  Frank  and 
the  Dane,  might  have  been  by  this  time,  untouched  by  the 


386 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


spear  of  Pallas,  unruled  by  the  rod  of  Agricola,  and  sincerely 
the  native  growth,  pure  of  root,  and  ungrafted  in  fruit  of  the 
clay  of  Isis,  rock  of  Dovrefeldt,  and  sands  of  Elbe  ? Think  of 
it,  and  think  chiefly  what  form  the  ideas,  and  images,  of  your 
natural  religion  might  probably  have  taken,  if  no  Roman  mis- 
sionary had  ever  passed  the  Alps  in  charity,  and  no  English 
king  in  pilgrimage. 

I have  been  of  late  indebted  more  than  I can  express  to  the 
friend  who  has  honoured  me  by  the  dedication  of  his  recently 
published  lectures  on  ‘ Older  England  ; * and  whose  eager  en- 
thusiasm and  far  collected  learning  have  enabled  me  for  the 
first  time  to  assign  their  just  meaning  and  value  to  the  ritual 
and  imagery  of  Saxon  devotion.  But  while  every  page  of  Mr. 
Hodgett’s  book,  and,  I may  gratefully  say  also,  every  sentence 
of  his  teaching,  has  increased  and  justified  the  respect  in  which 
I have  always  been  by  my  own  feeling  disposed  to  hold  the 
mythologies  founded  on  the  love  and  knowledge  of  the  natural 
world,  I have  also  been  led  by  them  to  conceive,  far  more 
forcibly  than  hitherto,  the  power  which  the  story  of  Christian- 
ity possessed,  first  heard  through  the  wreaths  of  that  cloudy 
superstition,  in  the  substitution,  for  its  vaporescent  allegory, 
of  a positive  and  literal  account  of  a real  Creation,  and  an  in- 
stantly present,  omnipresent,  and  compassionate  God. 

Observe,  there  is  no  question  whatever  in  examining  this 
influence,  how  far  Christianity  itself  is  true,  or  the  transcen- 
dental doctrines  of  it  intelligible.  Those  who  brought  you  the 
story  of  it  believed  it  with  all  their  souls  to  be  true, — and  the 
effect  of  it  on  the  hearts  of  your  ancestors  was  that  of  an  unques- 
tionable, infinitely  lucid  message  straight  from  God,  doing 
away  with  all  difficulties,  grief,  and  fears  for  those  who  will- 
ingly received  it,  nor  by  any,  except  wilfully  and  obstinately 
vile  persons,  to  be,  by  any  possibility,  denied  or  refused. 

And  it  was  precisely,  observe,  the  vivacity  and  joy  with 
which  the  main  fact  of  Christ’s  life  was  accepted  which  gave 
the  force  and  wrath  to  the  controversies  instantly  arising 
about  its  nature. 

Those  controversies  vexed  and  shook,  but  never  under- 
mined, the  faith  they  strove  to  purify,  and  the  miraculous 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  LEARNING. 


387 


presence,  errorless  precept,  and  loving  promises  of  tbeir  Lord 
were  alike  undoubted,  alike  rejoiced  in,  by  every  nation  that 
beard  the  word  of  Apostles.  The  Pelagian’s  assertion  that 
immortality  could  be  won  by  man’s  will,  and  the  Arian’s  that 
Christ  possessed  no  more  than  man’s  nature,  never  for  an  in- 
stant— or  in  any  country — hindered  the  advance  of  the  moral 
law  and  intellectual  hope  of  Christianity.  Far  the  contrary  ; 
the  British  heresy  concerning  Free  Will,  though  it  brought 
bishop  after  bishop  into  England  to  extinguish  it,  remained 
an  extremely  healthy  and  active  element  in  the  British  mind 
down  to  the  days  of  John  Bunyan  and  the  guide  Great  Heart, 
and  the  calmly  Christian  justice  and  simple  human  virtue  of 
Theodoric  were  the  very  roots  and  first  burgeons  of  the  re- 
generation of  Italy.*  But  of  the  degrees  in  which  it  was  pos- 
sible for  any  barbarous  nation  to  receive  during  the  first  five 
centuries,  either  the  spiritual  power  of  Christianity  itself,  or 
the  instruction  in  classic  art  and  science  which  accompanied 
it,  you  cannot  rightly  judge,  without  taking  the  pains,  and  they 
will  not,  I think,  be  irksome,  of  noticing  carefully,  and  fixing 
permanently  in  your  minds,  the  separating  characteristics  of 
the  greater  races,  both  in  those  who  learned  and  those  who 
taught. 

Of  the  Huns  and  Vandals  we  need  not  speak.  They  are 
merely  forms  of  Punishment  and  Destruction.  Put  them  out 
of  your  minds  altogether,  and  remember  only  the  names  of 
the  immortal  nations,  which  abide  on  their  native  rocks,  and 
plough  their  unconquered  plains,  at  this  hour. 

Briefly,  in  the  north, — Briton,  Norman,  Frank,  Saxon,  Ostro- 
goth, Lombard ; briefly,  in  the  south, — Tuscan,  Roman,  Greek, 
Syrian,  Egyptian,  Arabian. 

Now  of  these  races,  the  British  (I avoid  the  word  Celtic, 

* Gibbon,  in  bis  37th  chapter,  makes  Ulphilas  also  an  Arian,  but 
might  have  forborne,  with  grace,  his  own  definition  of  orthodoxy: — 
and  you  are  to  observe  generally  that  at  this  time  the  teachers  who  ad- 
mitted the  inferiority  of  Christ  to  the  Father  as  touching  his  Manhood, 
were  often  counted  among  Arians,  but  quite  falsely.  Christ’s  own 
words,  “My  Father  is  greater  than  I,”  end  that  controversy  at  once. 
Arianism  consists  not  in  asserting  the  subjection  of  the  Son  to  the 
Father,  but  in  denying  the  subjected  Divinity. 


388 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


because  you  would  expect  me  to  say  Keltic ; and  I don  t 
mean  to,  lest  you  should  be  wanting  me  next  to  call  the  pa- 
troness of  music  St.  Kekilia),  the  British,  including  Breton, 
Cornish,  Welsh,  Irish,  Scot,  and  Piet,  are,  I believe,  of  all  the 
northern  races,  the  one  which  has  deepest  love  of  external 
nature  ; — and  the  richest  inherent  gift  of  pure  music  and 
song,  as  such  ; separated  from  the  intellectual  gift  which 
raises  song  into  poetry.  They  are  naturally  also  religious, 
and  for  some  centuries  after  their  own  conversion  are  one  of 
the  chief  evangelizing  powers  in  Christendom.  But  they  are 
neither  apprehensive  nor  receptive  ; — they  cannot  under- 
stand the  classic  races,  and  learn  scarcely  anything  from 
them  ; perhaps  better  so,  if  the  classic  races  had  been  more 
careful  to  understand  them. 

Next,  the  Norman  is  scarcely  more  apprehensive  than  the 
Celt,  but  he  is  more  constructive,  and  uses  to  good  advan- 
tage what  he  learns  from  the  Frank.  His  main  characteristic 
is  an  energy,  which  never  exhausts  itself  in  vain  anger,  de- 
sire, or  sorrow,  but  abides  and  rules,  like  a living  rock : — 
where  he  winders,  he  flows  like  lava,  and  congeals  like  gran- 
ite. 

Next,  I take  in  this  first  sketch  the  Saxon  and  Frank  to- 
gether, both  pre-eminently  apprehensive,  both  docile  exceed- 
ingly, imaginative  in  the  highest,  but  in  life  active  more  than 
pensive,  eager  in  desire,  swift  of  invention,  keenly  sensitive 
to  animal  beauty,  but  with  difficulty  rational,  and  rarely,  for 
the  future,  wise.  Under  the  conclusive  name  of  Ostrogoth, 
you  may  class  whatever  tribes  are  native  to  Central  Germany, 
and  develope  themselves,  as  time  goes  on,  into  that  power  of 
the  German  Caesars  which  still  asserts  itself  as  an  empire 
against  the  license  and  insolence  of  modern  republicanism, — • 
of  which  races,  though  this  general  name,  no  description  can 
be  given  in  rapid  terms. 

And  lastly,  the  Lombards,  who,  at  the  time  we  have  to  deal 
with,  were  sternly  indocile,  gloomily  imaginative, — of  almost 
Norman  energy,  and  differing  from  all  the  other  western  na- 
tions chiefly  in  this  notable  particular,  that  while  the  Celt  is 
capable  of  bright  wit  and  happy  play,  and  the  Norman,  Saxon, 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  LEARNING. 


389 


and  Frank  all  alike  delight  in  caricature,  the  Lombards,  like 
the  Arabians,  never  jest. 

These,  briefly,  are  the  six  barbaric  nations  who  are  to  be 
taught : and  of  whose  native  arts  and  faculties,  before  they 
receive  any  tutorship  from  the  south,  I find  no  well-sifted  ac- 
count in  any  history : — but  thus  much  of  them,  collecting 
your  own  thoughts  and  knowledge,  you  may  easily  discern — 
they  were  all,  with  the  exception  of  the  Scots,  practical  work- 
ers and  builders  in  wood  ; and  those  of  them  who  had  coasts, 
first  rate  sea-boat  builders,  with  fine  mathematical  instincts 
and  practice  in  that  kind  far  developed,  necessarily  good  sail- 
weaving, and  sound  fur-stitcliing,  with  stout  iron-work  of  nail 
and  rivet ; rich  copper  and  some  silver  work  in  decoration — 
the  Celts  developing  peculiar  gifts  in  linear  design,  but  wholly 
incapable  of  drawing  animals  or  figures  ; — the  Saxons  and 
Franks  having  enough  capacity  in  that  kind,  but  no  thought 
of  attempting  it  ; the  Normans  and  Lombards  still  farther 
remote  from  any  such  skill.  More  and  more,  it  seems  to  me 
wonderful  that  under  your  British  block-temple,  grimly  ex- 
tant on  its  pastoral  plain,  or  beside  the  first  crosses  engraved 
on  the  rock  at  Whithorn — you  English  and  Scots  do  not 
oftener  consider  what  you  might  or  could  have  come  to,  left 
to  yourselves. 

Next,  let  us  form  the  list  of  your  tutor  nations,  in  whom  it 
generally  pleases  you  to  look  at  nothing  but  the  corruptions. 
If  we  could  get  into  the  habit  of  thinking  more  of  our  own 
corruptions  and  more  of  their  virtues,  we  should  have  a better 
chance  of  learning  the  true  laws  alike  of  art  and  destiny. 

But,  the  safest  way  of  all,  is  to  assure  ourselves  that  true 
knowledge  of  any  thing  or  any  creature  is  only  of  the  good  of 
it ; that  its  nature  and  life  are  in  that,  and  that  what  is  dis- 
eased,— that  is  to  say,  unnatural  and  mortal, — you  must  cut 
away  from  it  in  contemplation,  as  you  would  in  surgery. 

Of  the  six  tutor  nations,  two,  the  Tuscan  and  Arab,  have 
no  effect  on  early  Christian  England.  But  the  Homan,  Greek, 
Syrian,  and  Egyptian  act  together  from  the  earliest  times  ; 
you  are  to  study  the  influence  of  Rome  upon  England  in  Agric- 
ola,  Constantius,  St.  Benedict,  and  St.  Gregory ; of  Greece 


390 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


upon  England  in  the  artists  of  Byzantium  and  Ravenna  ; of 
Syria  and  Egypt  upon  England  in  St.  Jerome,  St  Augustine, 
St.  Chrysostom,  and  St  Athanase. 

St  Jerome,  in  central  Bethlehem  ; St.  Augustine,  Cartha- 
ginian by  birth,  in  truth  a converted  Tyrian  ; Athanase,  Egyp- 
tian, symmetric  and  fixed  as  an  Egyptian  aisle  ; Chrysostom, 
golden  mouth  of  all ; these  are,  indeed,  every  one  teachers  of 
all  the  western  world,  but  St  Augustine  especially  of  lay,  as 
distinguished  from  monastic,  Christianity  to  the  Franks,  and 
finally  to  us.  His  rule,  expanded  into  the  treatise  of  the  City 
of  God,  is  taken  for  guide  of  life  and  policy  by  Charlemagne, 
and  becomes  certainly  the  fountain  of  Evangelical  Christianity, 
distinctively  so  called,  (and  broadly  the  lay  Christianity  of 
Europe,  since,  in  the  purest  form  of  it,  that  is  to  say,  the 
most  merciful,  charitable,  variously  applicable,  kindly  wise.) 
The  greatest  type  of  it,  as  far  as  I know,  St.  Martin  of  Tours, 
whose  character  is  sketched,  I think  in  the  main  rightly,  in 
the  Bible  of  Amiens ; and  you  may  bind  together  your 
thoughts  of  its  course  by  remembering  that  Alcuin,  bom  at 
York,  dies  in  the  Abbey  of  St.  Martin,  at  Tours  ; that  as  St. 
Augustine  was  in  his  writings  Charlemagne’s  Evangelist  in 
faith,  Alcuin  was,  in  living  presence,  his  master  in  rhetoric, 
logic,  and  astronomy,  with  the  other  physical  sciences. 

A hundred  years  later  than  St.  Augustine,  comes  the  rule 
of  St.  Benedict — the  Monastic  rule,  virtually,  of  European 
Christianity,  ever  since— and  theologically  the  Law  of  Works, 
as  distinguished  from  the  Law  of  Faith.  St  Augustine  and 
all  the  disciples  of  St.  Augustine  tell  Christians  what  they 
should  feel  and  think : St  Benedict  and  all  the  disciples  of 
St  Benedict  tell  Christians  what  they  should  say  and  do. 

In  the  briefest,  but  also  the  perfectest  distinction,  the  dis- 
ciples of  St  Augustine  are  those  who  open  the  door  to  Christ 
— “If  any  man  hear  my  voice  but  the  Benedictines  those 
to  whom  Christ  opens  the  door — “ To  him  that  knocketh  it 
shall  be  opened.” 

Now,  note  broadly  the  course  and  action  of  this  rule,  as  it 
combines  with  the  older  one.  St.  Augustine’s,  accepted 
heartily  by  Clovis,  and,  with  various  degrees  of  understand- 


TEE  PLEASURES  OF  LEARNING . 


391 


ing,  by  the  kings  and  queens  of  the  Merovingian  dynasty, 
makes  seemingly  little  difference  in  their  conduct,  so  that 
their  profession  of  it  remains  a scandal  to  Christianity  to  this 
day  ; and  yet  it  lives,  in  the  true  hearts  among  them,  down 
from  St.  Clotilde  to  her  great  grand-daugliter  Bertha,  who  in 
becoming  Queen  of  Kent,  builds  under  its  chalk  downs  her 
own  little  chapel  to  St.  Martin,  and  is  the  first  effectively  and 
permanently  useful  missionary  to  the  Saxons,  the  beginner  of 
English  Erudition, — the  first  laid  corner  stone  of  beautiful 
English  character. 

I think  henceforward  you  will  find  the  memorandum  of 
dates  which  I have  here  set  down  for  my  own  guidance  more 
simply  useful  than  those  confused  by  record  of  unimportant 
persons  and  inconsequent  events,  which  form  the  indices  of 
common  history. 

From  the  year  of  the  Saxon  invasion  449,  there  are  exactly 
400  years  to  the  birth  of  Alfred,  849.  You  have  no  difficulty 
in  remembering  those  cardinal  years.  Then,  you  have  Four 
great  men  and  great  events  to  remember,  at  the  close  of  the 
fifth  century.  Clovis,  and  the  founding  of  the  Frank  King- 
dom ; Theodoric  and  the  founding  of  the  Gothic  Kingdom  ; 
Justinian  and  the  founding  of  Civil  law  ; St.  Benedict  and  the 
founding  of  Religious  law. 

Of  Justinian,  and  his  work,  I am  not  able  myself  to  form 
any  opinion — and  it  is,  I think,  unnecessary  for  students  of 
history  to  form  any,  until  they  are  able  to  estimate  clearly  the 
benefits,  and  mischief,  of  the  civil  law  of  Europe  in  its  present 
state.  But  to  Clovis,  Theodoric,  and  St.  Benedict,  without 
any  question,  we  owe  more  than  any  English  historian  has  yet 
ascribed, — and  they  are  easily  held  in  mind  together,  for 
Clovis  ascended  the  Frank  throne  in  the  year  of  St.  Benedict’s 
birth,  481.  Theodoric  fought  the  battle  of  Verona,  and 
founded  the  Ostrogothic  Kingdom  in  Italy  twelve  years  later, 
in  493,  and  thereupon  married  the  sister  of  Clovis.  That 
marriage  is  always  passed  in  a casual  sentence,  as  if  a merely 
political  one,  and  while  page  after  page  is  spent  in  following 
the  alternations  of  furious  crime  and  fatal  chance,  in  the  con- 
tests between  Fredegonde  and  Brunehaut,  no  historian  ever 


392 


TEE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


considers  whether  the  great  Ostrogoth  who  wore  in  the  battle 
of  Yerona  the  dress  which  his  mother  had  woven  for  him,  was 
likely  to  have  chosen  a wife  without  love  ! — or  how  far  the 
perfectness,  justice,  and  temperate  wisdom  of  every  ordinance 
of  his  reign  was  owing  to  the  sympathy  and  counsel  of  his 
Frankish  queen. 

You  have  to  recollect,  then,  thus  far,  only  three  cardinal 
dates : — 

449.  Saxon  invasion. 

481.  Clovis  reigns  and  St.  Benedict  is  born. 

493.  Theodoric  conquers  at  Yerona. 

Then,  roughly,  a hundred  years  later,  in  590,  Ethelbert,  the 
fifth  from  Hengist,  and  Bertha,  the  third  from  Clotilde,  are 
king  and  queen  of  Kent.  I cannot  find  the  date  of  their  mar- 
riage, but  the  date,  590,  which  you  must  recollect  for  cardinal, 
is  that  of  Gregory’s  accession  to  the  pontificate,  and  I believe 
Bertha  was  then  in  middle  life,  having  persevered  in  her  relig- 
ion firmly,  but  inoffensively,  and  made  herself  beloved  by  her 
husband  and  people.  She,  in  England,  Theodolinda  in  Lom- 
bardy, and  St.  Gregory  in  Borne  : — in  their  hands,  virtually 
lay  the  destiny  of  Europe. 

Then  the  period  from  Bertha  to  Osburga,  590  to  849 — say 
250  years — is  passed  by  the  Saxon  people  in  the  daily  more 
reverent  learning  of  the  Christian  faith,  and  daily  more  peace- 
ful and  skilful  practice  of  the  humane  arts  and  duties  which 
it  invented  and  inculcated. 

The  statement  given  by  Sir  Edward  Creasy  of  the  result  of 
these  250  years  of  lesson  is,  with  one  correction,  the  most 
simple  and  just  that  I can  find. 

“ A few  years  before  the  close  of  the  sixth  century,  the 
country  was  little  more  than  a wide  battle-field,  where  gallant 
but  rude  warriors  fought  with  each  other,  or  against  the 
neighbouring  Welsh  or  Scots  ; unheeding  and  unheeded  by 
the  rest  of  Europe,  or,  if  they  attracted  casual  attention,  re- 
garded with  dread  and  disgust  as  the  fiercest  of  barbarians 
and  the  most  untameable  of  pagans.  In  the  eighth  century, 
England  was  looked  up  to  with  admiration  and  gratitude,  as 
superior  to  all  the  other  countries  of  Western  Europe  in  piety 


TEE  PLEASURES  OF  LEARNING. 


393 


and  learning,  and  as  the  land  whence  the  most  zealous  and 
successful  saints  and  teachers  came  forth  to  convert  and  en- 
lighten the  still  barbarous  regions  of  the  continent.” 

This  statement  is  broadly  true  ; yet  the  correction  it  needs 
is  a very  important  one.  England, — under  her  first  Alfred  of 
Northumberland,  and  under  Ina  of  Wessex,  is  indeed  during 
these  centuries  the  most  learned,  thoughtful,  and  progressive 
of  European  states.  But  she  is  not  a missionary  power.  The 
missionaries  are  always  to  her,  not  from  her : — for  the  very 
reason  that  she  is  learning  so  eagerly,  she  does  not  take  to 
preaching.  Ina  founds  his  Saxon  school  at  Home  not  to 
teach  Rome,  nor  convert  the  Pope,  but  to  drink  at  the  source 
of  knowledge,  and  to  receive  laws  from  direct  and  unques- 
tioned authority.  The  missionary  power  was  wholly  Scotch 
and  Irish,  and  that  power  was  wholly  one  of  zeal  and  faith, 
not  of  learning.  I will  ask  you,  in  the  course  of  my  next 
lecture,  to  regard  it  attentively  ; to-day,  I must  rapidly  draw 
to  the  conclusions  I would  leave  with  you. 

It  is  more  and  more  wonderful  to  me  as  I think  of  it,  that 
no  effect  whatever  was  produced  on  the  Saxon,  nor  on  any 
other  healthy  race  of  the  North,  either  by  the  luxury  of  Rome, 
or  by  her  art,  whether  constructive  or  imitative.  The  Saxon 
builds  no  aqueducts — designs  no  roads,  rounds  no  theatres  in 
imitation  of  her, — envies  none  of  her  vile  pleasures, — ad- 
mires, so  far  as  I can  judge,  none  of  her  far-carried  realistic 
art.  I suppose  that  it  needs  intelligence  of  a more  advanced 
kind  to  see  the  qualities  of  complete  sculpture  : and  that  we 
may  think  of  the  Northern  intellect  as  still  like  that  of  a 
child,  who  cares  to  picture  its  own  thoughts  in  its  own  way, 
but  does  not  care  for  the  thoughts  of  older  people,  or  attempt 
to  copy  what  it  feels  too  difficult.  This  much  at  least  is  cer- 
tain, that  for  one  cause  or  another,  everything  that  now  at 
Paris  or  London  our  painters  most  care  for  and  try  to  realize, 
of  ancient  Rome,  was  utterly  innocuous  and  unattractive  to 
the  Saxon : while  his  mind  was  frankly  open  to  the  direct 
teaching  of  Greece  and  to  the  methods  of  bright  decoration 
employed  in  the  Byzantine  Empire : for  these  alone  seemed 
to  his  fancy  suggestive  of  the  glories  of  the  brighter  world 


394: 


TEE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND . 


promised  by  Christianity.  Jewellery,  vessels  of  gold  and 
silver,  beautifully  'written  books,  and  music,  are  the  gifts  of 
St.  Gregory  alike  to  the  Saxon  and  Lombard  ; all  these  beauti- 
ful things  being  used,  not  for  the  pleasure  of  the  present  life, 
but  as  the  symbols  of  another  ; while  the  drawings  in  Saxon 
manuscripts,  in  which,  better  than  in  any  other  remains  of 
their  life,  we  can  read  the  people’s  character,  are  rapid  en- 
deavours to  express  for  themselves,  and  convey  to  others, 
some  likeness  of  the  realities  of  sacred  event  in  which  they 
had  been  instructed.  They  differ  from  every  archaic  school 
of  former  design  in  this  evident  correspondence  with  an 
imagined  reality.  All  previous  archaic  art  whatsoever  is  sym- 
bolic and  decorative — not  realistic.  The  contest  of  Herakles 
with  the  Hydra  on  a Greek  vase  is  a mere  sign  that  such  a 
contest  took  place,  not  a picture  of  it,  and  in  drawing  that 
sign  the  potter  is  always  thinking  of  the  effect  of  the  engraved 
lines  on  the  curves  of  his  pot,  and  taking  care  to  keep  out  of 
the  way  of  the  handle  ; — but  a Saxon  monk  would  scratch  his 
idea  of  the  Fall  of  the  angels  or  the  Temptation  of  Christ  over 
a whole  page  of  his  manuscript  in  variously  explanatory  scenes, 
evidently  full  of  inexpressible  vision,  and  eager  to  explain  and 
illustrate  all  that  he  felt  or  believed. 

Of  the  progress  and  arrest  of  these  gifts,  I shall  have  to 
speak  in  my  next  address ; but  I must  regretfully  conclude 
to-day  with  some  brief  warning  against  the  complacency 
which  might  lead  you  to  regard  them  as  either  at  that  time 
entirely  original  in  the  Saxon  race,  or  at  the  present  day  as 
signally  characteristic  of  it.  That  form  of  complacency  is  ex- 
hibited in  its  most  amiable,  but,  therefore,  most  deceptive 
guise,  in  the  passage  with  which  the  late  Dean  of  Westminster 
concluded  his  lecture  at  Canterbury  in  April,  1854,  on  the 
subject  of  the  landing  of  Augustine.  I will  not  spoil  the  em- 
phasis of  the  passage  by  comment  as  I read,  but  must  take 
leave  afterwards  to  intimate  some  grounds  for  abatement  in 
the  fervour  of  its  self-gratulatory  ecstasy. 

“ Let  any  one  sit  on  the  hill  of  the  little  church  of  St.  Mar- 
tin, and  look  on  the  view  which  is  there  spread  before  his 
eyes.  Immediately  below  are  the  towers  of  the  great  abbey 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  LEARNING. 


395 


of  St.  Augustine,  where  Christian  learning  and  civilization 
first  struck  root  in  the  Anglo-Saxon  race ; and  within  which 
now,  after  a lapse  of  many  centuries,  a new  institution  has 
arisen,  intended  to  carry  far  and  wide,  to  countries  of  which 
Gregory  and  Augustine  never  heard,  the  blessings  which  they 
gave  to  us.  Carry  your  view  on — and  there  rises  high  above 
all  the  magnificent  pile  of  our  cathedral,  equal  in  splendour 
and  state  to  any,  the  noblest  temple  or  church  that  Augustine 
could  have  seen  in  ancient  Rome,  rising  on  the  very  ground 
which  derives  its  consecration  from  him.  And  still  more  than 
the  grandeur  of  the  outward  buildings  that  rose  from  the 
little  church  of  Augustine  and  the  little  palace  of  Ethelbert 
have  been  the  institutions  of  all  kinds  of  which  these  were 
the  earliest  cradle.  From  Canterbury,  the  first  English 
Christian  city, — from  Kent,  the  first  English  Christian  king- 
dom—has  by  degrees  arisen  the  whole  constitution  of  Church 
and  State  in  England  which  now  binds  together  the  whole 
British  Empire.  And  from  the  Christianity  here  established 
in  England  has  flowed,  by  direct  consequence,  first  the  Chris- 
tianity of  Germany ; then,  after  a long  interval,  of  North 
America  ; and  lastly,  we  may  trust,  in  time,  of  all  India  and 
all  Australasia.  The  view  from  St.  Martin’s  Church  is  indeed 
one  of  the  most  inspiriting  that  can  be  found  in  the  world ; 
there  is  none  to  which  I would  more  willingly  take  any  one 
who  doubted  whether  a small  beginning  could  lead  to  a great 
and  lasting  good  ; — none  which  carries  us  more  vividly  back 
into  the  past,  or  more  hopefully  forward  into  the  future.” 

To  this  Gregorian  canticle  in  praise  of  the  British  constitu- 
tion, I grieve,  but  am  compelled,  to  take  these  following  his- 
torical objections.  The  first  missionary  to  Germany  was  U1- 
philas,  and  what  she  owes  to  these  islands  she  owes  to  Iona, 
not  to  Thanet.  Our  missionary  offices  to  America  as  to  Africa, 
consist  I believe  principally  in  the  stealing  of  land,  and  the 
extermination  of  its  proprietors  by  intoxication.  Our  rule  in 
India  has  introduced  there,  Paisley  instead  of  Cashmere  shawls : 
in  Australasia  our  Christian  aid  supplies,  I suppose,  the  pious 
farmer  with  convict  labour.  And  although,  when  the  Dean 
wrote  the  above  passage,  St.  Augustine’s  and  the  cathedra^ 


396 


TEE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAN1/. 


were — I take  it  on  trust  from  his  description — the  principal 
objects  in  the  prospect  from  St  Martin’s  Hill,  I believe  even 
the  cheerfullest  of  my  audience  would  not  now  think  the  scene 
one  of  the  most  inspiriting  in  the  world.  For  recent  prog- 
ress has  entirely  accommodated  the  architecture  of  the  scene 
to  the  convenience  of  the  missionary  workers  above  enumer- 
ated ; to  the  peculiar  necessities  of  the  civilization  they  have 
achieved.  For  the  sake  of  which  the  cathedral,  the  monastery, 
the  temple,  and  the  tomb,  of  Bertha,  contract  themselves  in 
distant  or  despised  subservience  under  the  colossal  walls  of 
the  county  gaoL 


LECTURE  H. 

THE  PLEASURES  OF  FAITH. 

Alfred  to  the  Confessor . 

I was  forced  in  my  last  lecture  to  pass  by  altogether, 
and  to-day  can  only  with  momentary  definition  notice,  the 
part  taken  by  Scottish  missionaries  in  the  Christianizing  of 
England  and  Burgundy.  I would  pray  you  therefore,  in  order 
to  fill  the  gap  which  I think  it  better  to  leave  distinctly,  than 
close  confusedly,  to  read  the  histories  of  St.  Patrick,  St.  Co- 
lumba,  and  St  Columban,  as  they  are  given  you  by  Montalem- 
bert  in  his  ‘ Moines  d’Occident.’  You  will  find  in  his  pages  all 
the  essential  facts  that  are  known,  encircled  with  a nimbus  of 
enthusiastic  sympathy  which  I hope  you  will  like  better  to  see 
them  through,  than  distorted  by  blackening  fog  of  contempt- 
uous rationalism.  But  although  I ask  you  thus  to  make  your- 
selves aware  of  the  greatness  of  my  omission,  I must  also  cer- 
tify you  that  it  does  not  break  the  unity  of  our  own  immediate 
subject  The  influence  of  Celtic  passion  and  art  both  on 
Northumbria  and  the  Continent,  beneficent  in  all  respects 
while  it  lasted,  expired  without  any  permanent  share  in  the 
work  or  emotion  of  the  Saxon  and  Frank.  The  book  of  Kells, 
and  the  bell  of  St.  Patrick,  represent  sufficiently  the  peculiar 
character  of  Celtic  design  ; and  long  since,  in  the  first  lecture 
of  the  ‘ Two  Paths,’  I explained  both  the  modes  of  skill,  and 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  FAITH. 


397 


points  of  weakness,  which  rendered  such  design  unprogressive. 
Perfect  in  its  peculiar  manner,  and  exulting  in  the  faultless 
practice  of  a narrow  skill,  it  remained  century  after  century 
incapable  alike  of  inner  growth,  or  foreign  instruction  ; inim- 
itable, yet  incorrigible  ; marvellous,  yet  despicable,  to  its 
death.  Despicable,  I mean,  only  in  the  limitation  of  its 
capacity,  not  in  its  quality  or  nature.  If  you  make  a Christian 
of  a lamb  or  a squirrel — what  can  you  expect  of  the  lamb  but 
jumping — what  of  the  squirrel,  but  pretty  spirals,  traced  with 
his  tail  ? He  won’t  steal  your  nuts  any  more,  and  he’ll  say  his 
prayers  like  this — * ; but  you  cannot  make  a Beatrice’s  griffin, 
and  emblem  of  all  the  Catholic  Church,  out  of  him. 

You  will  have  observed,  also,  that  the  plan  of  these  lectures 
does  not  include  any  reference  to  the  Homan  Period  in  Eng- 
land ; of  which  you  will  find  all  I think  necessary  to  say,  in  the 
part  called  Valle  Crucis  of  ‘Our  Fathers  have  told  us.’  But  I 
must  here  warn  you,  with  reference  to  it,  of  one  gravely  false 
prejudice  of  Montale mbert.  He  is  entirely  blind  to  the  con- 
ditions of  Roman  virtue,  which  existed  in  the  midst  of  the 
corruptions  of  the  Empire,  forming  the  characters  of  such 
Emperors  as  Pertinax,  Carus,  Probus,  the  second  Claudius, 
Aurelian,  and  our  own  Constantius ; and  he  denies,  with  abu- 
sive violence,  the  power  for  good,  of  Roman  Law,  over  the 
Gauls  and  Britons. 

Respecting  Roman  national  character,  I will  simply  beg  you 
to  remember,  that  both  St.  Benedict  and  St.  Gregory  are  Ro- 
man patricians,  before  they  are  either  monk  or  pope  ; respect- 
ing its  influence  on  Britain,  I think  you  may  rest  content  with 
Shakespeare’s  estimate  of  it.  Both  Lear  and  Cymbeline  be- 
long to  this  time,  so  difficult  to  our  apprehension,  when  the 
Briton  accepted  both  Roman  laws  and  Roman  gods.  There 
is  indeed  the  born  Kentish  gentleman’s  protest  against  them 
in  Kent’s — 

“Now,  by  Apollo,  king, 

Thou  swear’st  thy  gods  in  vain  ” ; 

but  both  Cordelia  and  Imogen  are  just  as  thoroughly  Roman 
ladies,  as  Virgilia  or  Calphurnia. 

* Making  a sign. 


398 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


Of  British  Christianity  and  the  Arthurian  Legends,  I shall 
have  a word  or  two  to  say  in  my  lecture  on  “Fancy,”  in 
connection  with  the  similar  romance  which  surrounds  Theod- 
oric  and  Charlemagne  : only  the  worst  of  it  is,  that  while 
both  Dietrich  and  Karl  are  themselves  more  wonderful  than 
the  legends  of  them,  Arthur  fades  into  intangible  vision  : — 
this  much,  however,  remains  to  this  day,  of  Arthurian  blood 
in  us,  that  the  richest  fighting  element  in  the  British  army 
and  navy  is  British  native, — that  is  to  say,  Highlander,  Irish, 
Welsh,  and  Cornish. 

Content,  therefore,  (means  being  now  given  you  for  filling 
gaps,)  with  the  estimates  given  you  in  the  preceding  lecture 
of  the  sources  of  instruction  possessed  by  the  Saxon  capital,  I 
pursue  to-day  our  question  originally  proposed,  what  London 
might  have  been  by  this  time,  if  the  nature  of  the  flowers, 
trees,  and  children,  born  at  the  Thames-side,  had  been  rightly 
understood  and  cultivated. 

Many  of  my  hearers  can  imagine  far  better  than  I,  the  look 
that  London  must  have  had  in  Alfred’s  and  Canute’s  days.*  I 
have  not,  indeed,  the  least  idea  myself  what  its  buildings  were 
like,  but  certainly  the  groups  of  its  shipping  must  have  been 
superb  ; small,  but  entirely  seaworthy  vessels,  manned  by  the 
best  seamen  in  the  then  world.  Of  course,  now,  at  Chatham 
and  Portsmouth  we  have  our  ironclads, — extremely  beautiful 
and  beautifully  manageable  things,  no  doubt — to  set  against 
this  Saxon  and  Danish  shipping ; but  the  Saxon  war-ships  lay 

* Here  Alfred’s  Silver  Penny  was  shown  and  commented  on,  thus  : — 
Of  what  London  was  like  in  the  days  of  faith,  I can  show  you  one  piece 
of  artistic  evidence.  It  is  Alfred’s  silver  penny  struck  in  London  mint 
The  character  of  a coinage  is  quite  conclusive  evidence  in  national  his- 
tory, and  there  is  no  great  empire  in  progress,  but  tells  its  story  in  beau- 
tiful coins.  Here  in  Alfred’s  penny,  a round  coin  with  L.  0.  N.  D.  I.  N.  I.  A. 
struck  on  it,  you  have  just  the  same  beauty  of  design,  the  same  enig- 
matical arrangement  of  letters,  as  in  the  early  inscription,  which  it  is 
“ the  pride  of  my  life  ” to  have  discovered  at  Venice.  This  inscription 
(“the  first  words  that  Venice  ever  speaks  aloud  ”)  is,  it  will  be  remem- 
bered, on  the  Church  of  St.  Giacomo  di  Rialto,  and  runs,  being  inter 
preted — “Around  this  temple,  let  the  merchant’s  law  be  just,  his  weight! 
true,  and  his  covenants  faithful.” 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  FAITH. 


309 


here  at  London  shore — bright  with  banner  and  shield  and 
dragon  prow, — instead  of  these  you  may  be  happier,  but  are  not 
handsomer,  in  having,  now,  the  coal-barge,  the  penny  steamer, 
and  the  wherry  full  of  shop  boys  and  girls.  I dwell  how- 
ever for  a moment  only  on  the  naval  aspect  of  the  tidal  waters 
in  the  days  of  Alfred,  because  I can  refer  you  for  all  detail  on 
this  part  of  our  subject  to  the  wronderful  opening  chapter  of 
Dean  Stanley’s  History  of  Westminster  Abbey,  where  you  will 
find  the  origin  of  the  name  of  London  given  as  “ The  City  of 
Ships.”  He  does  not,  however,  tell  you,  that  there  were  built, 
then  and  there,  the  biggest  war-ships  in  the  world.  I have 
often  said  to  friends  who  praised  my  own  books  that  I would 
rather  have  written  that  chapter  than  any  one  of  them ; yet  if 
I had  been  able  to  write  the  historical  part  of  it,  the  conclu- 
sions drawn  would  have  been  extremely  different.  The  Dean 
indeed  describes  with  a poet’s  joy  the  River  of  wells,  which 
rose  from  those  “ once  consecrated  springs  which  now  lie 
choked  in  Holywell  and  Clerkenwell,  and  the  rivulet  of  IJle- 
brig  which  crossed  the  Strand  under  the  Ivy  bridge  ” ; but  it 
is  only  in  the  spirit  of  a modern  citizen  of  Belgravia  that  he 
exults  in  the  fact  that  “ the  great  arteries  of  our  crowded 
streets,  the  vast  sewers  which  cleanse  our  habitations,  are  fed 
by  the  life-blood  of  those  old  and  living  streams  ; that  under- 
neath our  tread  the  Tyburn,  and  the  Holborn,  and  the  Fleet, 
and  the  Wall  Brook,  are  still  pursuing  their  ceaseless  course, 
still  ministering  to  the  good  of  man,  though  in  a far  different 
fashion  than  wrhen  Druids  drank  of  their  sacred  springs,  and 
Saxons  were  baptized  in  their  rushing  waters,  ages  ago.” 
Whatever  sympathy  you  may  feel  with  these  eloquent  ex- 
pressions of  that  entire  complacency  in  the  present,  past,  and 
future,  which  peculiarly  animates  Dean  Stanley’s  writings,  1 
must,  in  this  case,  pray  you  to  observe  that  the  transmuta- 
tion of  holy  wells  into  sewers  has,  at  least,  destroyed  the 
charm  and  utility  of  the  Thames  as  a salmon  stream,  and  I 
must  ask  you  to  read  with  attention  the  succeeding  portions 
of  the  chapter  which  record  the  legends  of  the  river  fisheries 
in  their  relation  to  the  first  Abbey  of  Westminster;  dedicated 
by  its  builders  to  St.  Peter,  not  merely  in  his  office  of  corner- 


400 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


stone  of  the  Church,  nor  even  figuratively  as  a fisher  of  men* 
but  directly  as  a fisher  of  fish  : — and  which  maintained  them- 
selves, you  will  see,  in  actual  ceremony  down  to  1382,  when  a 
fisherman  still  annually  took  his  place  beside  the  Prior,  after 
having  brought  in  a salmon  for  St.  Peter,  which  was  carried 
in  state  down  the  middle  of  the  refectory. 

But  as  I refer  to  this  page  for  the  exact  word,  my  eye  is 
caught  by  one  of  the  sentences  of  Londonian*  thought  which 
constantly  pervert  the  well-meant  books  of  pious  England. 
“We  see  also,”  says  the  Dean,  “the  union  of  innocent  fiction 
with  worldly  craft,  which  marks  so  many  of  the  legends  both 
of  Pagan  and  Christian  times.”  I might  simply  reply  to  this 
insinuation  that  times  which  have  no  legends  differ  from  the 
legendary  ones  merely  by  uniting  guilty,  instead  of  innocent, 
fiction,  with  worldly  craft ; but  I must  farther  advise  you  that 
the  legends  of  these  passionate  times  are  in  no  wise,  and  in 
no  sense,  fiction  at  all ; but  the  true  record  of  impressions 
made  on  the  minds  of  persons  in  a state  of  eager  spiritual  ex- 
citement, brought  into  bright  focus  by  acting  steadily  and 
frankly  under  its  impulses.  I could  tell  you  a great  deal  more 
about  such  things  than  you  would  believe,  and  therefore,  a 
great  deal  more  than  it  would  do  you  the  least  good  to  hear ; 
— but  this  much  any  who  care  to  use  their  common  sense  mod- 
estly, cannot  but  admit,  that  unless  they  choose  to  try  the 
rough  life  of  the  Christian  ages,  they  cannot  understand  its 
practical  consequences.  You  have  all  been  taught  by  Lord 
Macaulay  and  his  school  that  because  you  have  Carpets  in- 
stead of  rushes  for  your  feet ; and  Feather-beds  instead  of 
fern  for  your  backs  ; and  Kickshaws  instead  of  beef  for  your 
eating  ; and  Drains  instead  of  Holy  Wells  for  your  drinking  ; 
— that,  therefore,  you  are  the  Cream  of  Creation,  and  every 
one  of  you  a seven-headed  Solomon.  Stay  in  those  pleasant 
circumstances  and  convictions  if  you  please  ; but  don’t  accuse 
your  roughly  bred  and  fed  fathers  of  telling  lies  about  the  aspect 
the  earth  and  sky  bore  to  them, — till  you  have  trodden  the 
earth  as  they,  barefoot,  and  seen  the  heavens  as  they,  face  to 
face.  If  you  care  to  see  and  to  know  for  yourselves,  you  may 
* Not  Londinian. 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  FAITH. 


401 


do  it  with  little  pains  ; you  need  not  do  any  great  thing,  you 
needn’t  keep  one  eye  open  and  the  other  shut  for  ten  years 
over  a microscope,  nor  fight  your  way  through  icebergs  and 
darkness  to  knowledge  of  the  celestial  pole.  Simply,  do  as 
much  as  king  after  king  of  the  Saxons  did, — put  rough  shoes 
on  your  feet  and  a rough  cloak  on  your  shoulders,  and  walk  to 
Rome  and  back.  Sleep  by  the  roadside,  when  it  is  fine, — in 
the  first  outhouse  you  can  find,  when  it  is  wet ; and  live  on 
bread  and  water,  with  an  onion  or  two,  all  the  way  ; and  if  the 
experiences  which  you  will  have  to  relate  on  your  return  do 
not,  as  may  well  be,  deserve  the  name  of  spiritual ; at  all  events 
you  will  not  be  disposed  to  let  other  people  regard  them  either 
as  Poetry  or  Fiction. 

With  this  warning,  presently  to  be  at  greater  length  insisted 
on,  I trace  for  you,  in  Dean  Stanley’s  words,  which  cannot  be 
bettered  except  in  the  collection  of  their  more  earnest  pas- 
sages from  among  his  interludes  of  graceful  but  dangerous 
qualification, — I trace,  with  only  such  omission,  the  story  he 
has  told  us  of  the  foundation  of  that  Abbey,  which,  he  tells 
you,  was  the  Mother  of  London,  and  has  ever  been  the  shrine 
and  the  throne  of  English  faith  and  truth. 

44  The  gradual  formation  of  a monastic  body,  indicated  in 
the  charters  of  Ofxa  and  Edgar,  marks  the  spread  of  the  Bene- 
dictine order  throughout  England,  under  the  influence  of 
Dunstan.  The  4 terror  ’ of  the  spot,  which  had  still  been  its 
chief  characteristic  in  the  charter  of  the  wild  Offa,  had,  in 
the  days  of  the  more  peaceful  Edgar,  given  way  to  a dubious 
4 renown.’  Twelve  monks  is  the  number  traditionally  said  to 
have  been  established  by  Dunstan.  A few  acres  farther  up 
the  river  formed  their  chief  property,  and  their  monastic  char- 
acter was  sufficiently  recognized  to  have  given  to  the  old  lo- 
cality of  the  4 terrible  place  ’ the  name  of  the  4 Western  Mon- 
astery,’ or  4 Minster  of  the  West.’  ” 

The  Benedictines  then — twelve  Benedictine  monks — thus 
began  the  building  of  existent  Christian  London.  You  know 
I told  you  the  Benedictines  are  the  Doing  people,  as  the  dis- 
ciples of  St.  Augustine  the  Sentimental  people.  The  Benedic- 
tines find  no  terror  in  their  own  thoughts — face  the  terror  of 


402 


TEE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


places — change  it  into  beauty  of  places, — make  this  terrible 
place,  a Motherly  Place — Mother  of  London. 

This  first  Westminster,  however,  the  Dean  goes  on  to  say, 
“ seems  to  have  been  overrun  by  the  Danes,  and  it  would  have 
had  no  further  history  but  for  the  combination  of  circum- 
stances which  directed  hither  the  notice  of  Edward  the  Con- 
fessor. 

I haven’t  time  to  read  you  all  the  combination  of  circum- 
stances. The  last  clinching  circumstance  was  this — 

“ There  was  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Worcester,  ‘ far  from 
men  in  the  wilderness,  on  the  slope  of  a wood,  in  a cave  deep 
down  in  the  grey  rock,’  a holy  hermit  ‘ of  great  age,  living  on 
fruits  and  roots.’  One  night  when,  after  reading  in  the  Script- 
ures c how  hard  are  the  pains  of  hell,  and  how  the  enduring 
life  of  Heaven  is  sweet  and  to  be  desired,’  he  could  neither  sleep 
nor  repose,  St.  Peter  appeared  to  him,  ‘ bright  and  beautiful, 
like  to  a clerk,’  and  warned  him  to  tell  the  King  that  he  was 
released  from  his  vow  ; that  on  that  very  day  his  messengers 
would  return  from  Pome  ; ” (that  is  the  combination  of  cir- 
cumstances— bringing  Pope’s  order  to  build  a church  to 
release  the  King  from  his  vow  of  pilgrimage)  ; “ that  ‘ at 
Thomey,  two  leagues  from  the  city,’  was  the  spot  marked  out 
where,  in  an  ancient  church,  ‘ situated  low,’  he  was  to  estab- 
lish a perfect  Benedictine  monastery,  which  should  be  ‘the 
gate  of  heaven,  the  ladder  of  prayer,  whence  those  who  serve 
St.  Peter  there,  shall  by  him  be  admitted  into  Paradise.’  The 
hermit  writes  the  account  of  the  vision  on  parchment,  seals  it 
with  wax,  and  brings  it  to  the  King,  who  compares  it  with  the 
answer  of  the  messengers,  just  arrived  from  Rome,  and  deter- 
mines on  carrying  out  the  design  as  the  Apostle  had  ordered. 

“ The  ancient  church,  ‘ situated  low,’  indicated  in  this 
vision  the  one  whose  attached  monastery  had  been  destroyed 
by  the  Danes,  but  its  little  church  remained,  and  was  already 
dear  to  the  Confessor,  not  only  from  the  lovely  tradition  of  its 
dedication  by  the  spirit  of  St.  Peter  ; ” (you  must  read  that  for 
yourselves  ;)  “ but  also  because  of  two  miracles  happening 
there  to  the  King  himself. 

“ The  first  was  the  cure  of  a cripple,  who  sat  in  the  road  bo 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  FAITH. 


403 


tween  the  Palace  and  * the  Chapel  of  St.  Peter/  which  was 
< near/  and  who  explained  to  the  Chamberlain  Hugolin  that, 
after  six  pilgrimages  to  Rome  in  vain,  St.  Peter  had  promised 
his  cure  if  the  King  would,  on  his  own  royal  neck,  carry  him 
to  the  Monastery.  The  King  immediately  consented  ; and, 
amidst  the  scoffs  of  the  court,  bore  the  poor  man  to  the  steps 
of  the  High  Altar.  There  the  cripple  was  received  by  Godric 
the  sacristan,  and  walked  away  on  his  own  restored  feet, 
hanging  his  stool  on  the  wall  for  a trophy. 

“ Before  that  same  High  Altar  was  also  believed  to  have 
been  seen  one  of  the  Eucharistical  portents,  so  frequent  in  the 
Middle  Ages.  A child,  4 pure  and  bright  like  a spirit,’  ap- 
peared to  the  King  in  the  sacramental  elements.  Leofric, 
Earl  of  Mercia,  who,  with  his  famous  countess,  Godiva,  was 
present,  saw  it  also. 

“ Such  as  these  were  the  motives  of  Edward.  Under  their 
influence  was  fixed  what  has  ever  since  been  the  local  centre 
of  the  English  monarchy.” 

“ Such  as  these  were  the  motives  of  Edward,”  says  the 
Dean.  Yes,  certainly  ; but  such  as  these  also,  first,  were  the 
acts  and  visions  of  Edward.  Take  care  that  you  don’t  slip 
away,  by  the  help  of  the  glycerine  of  the  word  44  motives,” 
into  fancying  that  all  these  tales  are  only  the  after  colours  and 
pictorial  metaphors  of  sentimental  piety.  They  are  either 
plain  truth  or  black  lies  ; take  your  choice, — but  don’t  tickle 
and  treat  yourselves  with  the  prettiness  or  the  grotesqueness 
of  them,  as  if  they  were  Anderssen’s  fairy  tales.  Either  the 
King  did  carry  the  beggar  on  his  back,  or  he  didn’t ; either 
Godiva  rode  through  Coventry,  or  she  didn’t  ; either  the 
Earl  Leofric  saw  the  vision  of  the  bright  child  at  the  altar 
— or  he  lied  like  a knave.  Judge,  as  you  will ; but  do  not 
Doubt. 

44  The  Abbey  was  fifteen  years  in  building.  The  King  spent 
upon  it  one-tenth  of  the  property  of  the  kingdom.  It  was  to 
be  a marvel  of  its  kind.  As  in  its  origin  it  bore  the  traces  of 
the  fantastic  and  childish  ” (I  must  pause,  to  ask  you  to  sub- 
stitute for  these  blameful  terms,  4 fantastic  and  childish,’  the 
better  ones  of  4 imaginative  and  pure’)  44  character  of  the  King 


404 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


and  of  the  age  ; in  its  architecture  it  bore  the  stamp  of  the 
peculiar  position  which  Edward  occupied  in  English  history 
between  Saxon  and  Norman.  By  birth  he  was  a Saxon,  but 
in  all  else  he  was  a foreigner.  Accordingly  the  Church  at 
Westminster  was  a wide-sweeping  innovation  on  all  that  had 
been  seen  before.  ‘ Destroying  the  old  building,’  he  says  in 
his  charter,  ‘ 1 have  built  up  a new  one  from  the  very  foun- 
dation.’ Its  fame  as  a ‘ new  style  of  composition’  lingered  in 
the  minds  of  men  for  generations.  It  was  the  first  cruciform 
church  in  England,  from  which  all  the  rest  of  like  shape  were 
copied — an  expression  of  the  increasing  hold  which,  in  the 
tenth  century,  the  idea  of  the  Crucifixion  had  laid  on  the 
imagination  of  Europe.  The  massive  roof  and  pillars  formed 
a contrast  with  the  rude  wooden  rafters  and  beams  of  the 
common  Saxon  churches.  Its  very  size — occupying,  as  it  did, 
almost  the  whole  area  of  the  present  building — was  in  itself 
portentous.  The  deep  foundations,  of  large  square  blocks  of 
grey  stone,  were  duly  laid  ; the  east  end  was  rounded  into  an 
apse  ; a tower  rose  in  the  centre,  crowned  by  a cupola  of 
wood.  At  the  western  end  were  erected  two  smaller  towers, 
with  five  large  bells.  The  hard  strong  stones  were  richly 
sculptured  ; the  windows  were  filled  with  stained  glass  ; the 
roof  was  covered  with  lead.  The  cloisters,  chapter-house, 
refectory,  dormitory,  the  infirmary,  with  its  spacious  chapel, 
if  not  completed  by  Edward,  were  all  begun,  and  finished  in 
the  next  generation  on  the  same  plan.  This  structure,  vener- 
able as  it  would  be  if  it  had  lasted  to  our  time,  has  almost 
entirely  vanished.  Possibly  one  vast  dark  arch  in  the  south- 
ern transept,  certainly  the  substructures  of  the  dormitory, 
with  their  huge  pillars,  ‘grand  and  regal  at  the  bases  and 
capitals,’  the  massive,  low-browed  passage  leading  from  the 
great  cloister  to  Little  Dean’s  Yard,  and  some  portions  of  the 
refectory  and  of  the  infirmary  chapel,  remain  as  specimens  of 
the  work  which  astonished  the  last  age  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 
and  the  first  age  of  the  Norman  monarchy.” 

Hitherto  I have  read  to  you  with  only  supplemental  com- 
ment. But  in  the  next  following  passage,  with  which  I close 
piy  series  of  extracts,  sentence  after  sentence  occurs,  at  which 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  FAITH. 


405 


as  I read,  I must  raise  my  hand,  to  mark  it  for  following  dep- 
recation, or  denial. 

“ In  the  centre  of  Westminster  Abbey  thus  lies  its  Founder, 
and  such  is  the  story  of  its  foundation.  Even  apart  from  the- 
legendary  elements  in  which  it  is  involved,  it  is  impossible 
not  to  be  struck  by  the  fantastic  character  of  all  its  circum- 
stances. We  seem  to  be  in  a world  of  poetry.”  (I  protest, 
No.)  “Edward  is  four  centuries  later  than  Etlielbert  and 
Augustine  ; but  the  origin  of  Canterbury  is  commonplace  and 
prosaic  compared  with  the  origin  of  Westminster.”  (Yes, 
that’s  true.)  “ We  can  hardly  imagine  a figure  more  incoiv 
gruous  to  the  soberness  of  later  times  than  the  quaint,  irreso- 
lute, wayward  prince  whose  chief  characteristics  have  just 
been  described.  His  titles  of  Confessor  and  Saint  belong  not 
to  the  general  instincts  of  Christendom ; but  to  the  most 
transitory  feelings  of  the  age.”  (I  protest,  No.)  “ His  opin- 
ions, his  prevailing  motives,  were  such  as  in  no  part  of  mod- 
ern Europe  would  now  be  shared  by  any  educated  teacher  or 
ruler.”  (That’s  true  enough.)  “But  in  spite  of  these  irrec- 
oncilable differences,  there  was  a solid  ground  for  the  charm 
which  he  exercised  over  his  contemporaries.  His  childish 
and  eccentric  fancies  have  passed  away  ; ” (I  protest,  No ;) 
“ but  his  innocent  faith  and  his  sympathy  with  his  people  are 
qualities  which,  even  in  our  altered  times,  may  still  retain 
their  place  in  the  economy  of  the  world.  Westminster  Abbey, 
so  we  hear  it  said,  sometimes  with  a cynical  sneer,  sometimes 
with  a timorous  scruple,  has  admitted  within  its  walls  many 
who  have  been  great  without  being  good,  noble  with  a noble- 
ness of  the  earth  earthy,  worldly  with  the  wisdom  of  this 
world.  But  it  is  a counterbalancing  reflection,  that  the  cen- 
tral tomb,  round  which  all  those  famous  names  have  clustered, 
contains  the  ashes  of  one  who,  weak  and  erring  as  he  was, 
rests  his  claims  of  interment  here,  not  on  any  act  of  power  or 
fame,  but  only  on  his  artless  piety  and  simple  goodness.  He, 
towards  whose  dust  was  attracted  the  fierce  Norman,  and  the 
proud  Plantagenet,  and  the  grasping  Tudor,  and  the  fickle 
Stuart,  even  the  Independent  Oliver,  the  Dutch  William,  and 
the  Hanoverian  George,  was  one  whose  humble  graces  are 


406 


TEE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


within  the  reach  of  every  man,  woman,  and  child  of  even 
time,  if  we  rightly  part  the  immortal  substance  from  the  per- 
ishable form.” 

Now  I have  read  you  these  passages  from  Dean  Stanley  as 
the  most  accurately  investigatory,  the  most  generously  sym- 
pathetic, the  most  reverently  acceptant  account  of  these  days, 
and  their  people,  wThich  you  can  yet  find  in  any  English  his- 
tory. But  consider  now,  point  by  point,  where  it  leaves  you. 
You  are  told,  first,  that  you  are  living  in  an  age  of  poetry. 
But  the  days  of  poetry  are  those  of  Shakespeare  and  Milton, 
not  of  Bede  : nay,  for  their  especial  wealth  in  melodious  the- 
ology and  beautifully  rhythmic  and  pathetic  meditation,  per- 
haps the  days  which  have  given  us  ‘Hiawatha,’  ‘In  Memori- 
am,’  ‘The  Christian  Year,’  and  the  ‘Soul’s  Diary’  of  George 
Macdonald,  may  be  not  with  disgrace  compared  with  those  of 
Caedmon.  And.  nothing  can  be  farther  different  from  the 
temper,  nothing  less  conscious  of  the  effort,  of  a poet,  than 
any  finally  authentic  document  to  which  you  can  be  referred 
for  the  relation  of  a Saxon  miracle. 

I will  read  you,  for  a perfectly  typical  example,  an  account 
of  one  from  Bede’s  ‘Life  of  St.  Cuthbert.’  The  passage  is  a 
favourite  one  of  my  own,  but  I do  not  in  the  least  anticipate 
its  producing  upon  you  the  solemnizing  effect  which  I think  I 
could  command  from  reading,  instead,  a piece  of  ‘Marmion,’ 
‘Manfred,’  or  ‘Childe  Harold.’ 

• • * “ He  had  one  day  left  his  cell  to  give  advice  to  some 
visitors  ; and  when  he  had  finished,  he  said  to  them,  ‘ I must 
now  go  in  again,  but  do  you,  as  you  are  inclined  to  depart, 
first  take  food  ; and  when  you  have  cooked  and  eaten  that 
goose  which  is  hanging  on  the  wall,  go  on  board  your  vessel 
in  God’s  name  and  return  home.’  He  then  uttered  a prayer, 
and,  having  blessed  them,  went  in.  But  they,  as  he  had  bid- 
den them,  took  some  food ; but  having  enough  provisions  of 
their  own,  which  they  had  brought  with  them,  they  did  not 
touch  the  goose. 

“But  when  they  had  refreshed  themselves  they  tried  to  go 
on  board  their  vessel,  but  a sudden  storm  utterly  prevented 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  FAITH. 


407 


them  from  putting  to  sea.  They  were  thus  detained  seven 
days  in  the  island  by  the  roughness  of  the  waves,  and  yet  they 
could  not  call  to  mind  what  fault  they  had  committed.  They 
therefore  returned  to  have  an  interview  with  the  holy  father, 
and  to  lament  to  him  their  detention.  He  exhorted  them  to 
be  patient,  and  on  the  seventh  day  came  out  to  console  their 
sorrow,  and  to  give  them  pious  exhortations.  When,  however, 
he  had  entered  the  house  in  which  they  were  stopping,  and 
saw  that  the  goose  was  not  eaten,  he  reproved  their  disobedi- 
ence with  mild  countenance  and  in  gentle  language  : * Have 
you  not  left  the  goose  still  hanging  in  its  place  ? What  won- 
der is  it  that  the  storm  has  prevented  your  departure  ? Put 
it  immediately  into  the  caldron,  and  boil  and  eat  it,  that  the 
sea  may  become  tranquil,  and  you  may  return  home/ 

“ They  immediately  did  as  he  commanded ; and  it  happened 
most  wonderfully  that  the  moment  the  kettle  began  to  boil 
the  wind  began  to  cease,  and  the  waves  to  be  still.  Having 
finished  their  repast,  and  seeing  that  the  sea  was  calm,  they 
went  on  board,  and  to  their  great  delight,  though  with  shame 
for  tlieir  neglect,  reached  home  with  a fair  wind.  Now  this, 
as  I have  related,  I did  not  pick  up  from  any  chance  authority, 
but  I had  it  from  one  of  those  who  were  present,  a most  rev- 
erend monk  and  priest  of  the  same  monastery,  Cynemund, 
who  still  lives,  known  to  many  in  the  neighbourhood  for  his 
years  and  the  purity  of  his  life.” 

I hope  that  the  memory  of  this  story,  which,  thinking  it 
myself  an  extremely  pretty  one,  I have  given  you,  not  only  for 
a type  of  sincerity  and  simplicity,  but  for  an  illustration  of 
obedience,  may  at  all  events  quit  you,  for  good  and  all,  of  the 
notion  that  the  believers  and  witnesses  of  miracle  were  poeti 
cal  persons.  Saying  no  more  on  the  head  of  that  allegation, 
I proceed  to  the  Dean’s  second  one,  which  I cannot  but  inter- 
pret as  also  intended  to  be  injurious, — that  they  were  artless 
and  childish  ones  ; and  that  because  of  this  rudeness  and 
puerility,  their  motives  and  opinions  would  not  be  shared  by 
any  statesman  of  the  present  day. 

It  is  perfectly  true  that  Edward  the  Confessor  was  himself 


403 


TEE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


in  many  respects  of  really  childish  temperament  ; not  there- 
fore, perhaps,  as  I before  suggested  to  you,  less  venerable. 
But  the  age  of  which  we  are  examining  the  progress,  was  by 
no  means  represented  or  governed  by  men  of  similar  disposi- 
tion. It  was  eminently  productive  of — it  was  altogether 
governed,  guided,  and  instructed  by — men  of  the  widest  and 
most  brilliant  faculties,  whether  constructive  or  speculative, 
that  the  world  till  then  had  seen  ; men  whose  acts  became  the 
romance,  whose  thoughts  the  wisdom,  and  whose  arts  the 
treasure,  of  a thousand  years  of  futurity. 

I warned  you  at  the  close  of  last  lecture  against  the  too 
agreeable  vanity  of  supposing  that  the  Evangelization  of  the 
world  began  at  St.  Martin’s,  Canterbury.  Again  and  again 
you  will  indeed  find  the  stream  of  the  Gospel  contracting  it- 
self into  narrow  channels,  and  appearing,  after  long-concealed 
filtration,  through  veins  of  unmeasured  rock,  with  the  bright 
resilience  of  a mountain  spring.  But  you  will  find  it  the  only 
candid,  and  therefore  the  only  wise,  way  of  research,  to  look 
in  each  era  of  Christendom  for  the  minds  of  culminating 
power  in  all  its  brotherhood  of  nations  ; and,  careless  of  local 
impulse,  momentary  zeal,  picturesqe  incident,  or  vaunted  mir- 
acle, to  fasten  your  attention  upon  the  force  of  character  in 
the  men,  whom,  over  each  newly-converted  race,  Heaven  visi- 
bly sets  for  its  shepherds  and  kings,  to  bring  forth  judgment 
unto  victory.  Of  these  I will  name  to  you,  as  messengers  of 
God  and  masters  of  men,  five  monks  and  five  kings  ; in  whose 
arms  during  the  range  of  swiftly  gainful  centuries  which  we 
are  following,  the  life  of  the  world  lay  as  a nursling  babe. 
Bemember,  in  their  successive  order, — of  monks,  St.  Jerome, 
St.  Augustine,  St.  Martin,  St.  Benedict,  and  St.  Gregory  ; of 
kings, — and  your  national  vanity  may  be  surely  enough  ap- 
peased in  recognizing  two  of  them  for  Saxon, — Theodoric, 
Charlemagne,  Alfred,  Canute,  and  the  Confessor.  I will  read 
three  passages  to  you,  out  of  the  literal  words  of  three  of 
these  ten  men,  without  saying  whose  they  are,  that  you  may 
compare  them  with  the  best  and  most  exalted  you  have  read 
expressing  the  philosophy,  the  religion,  and  the  policy  of  to- 
day,— from  which  I admit,  with  Dean  Stanley,  but  with  a far 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  FAITH. 


409 


different  meaning  from  his,  that  they  are  indeed  separate  foi 
evermore. 

I give  you  first,  for  an  example  of  Philosophy,  a single  sen- 
tence, containing  all — so  far  as  I can  myself  discern — that  it 
is  possible  for  us  to  know,  or  well  for  us  to  believe,  respect- 
ing the  world  and  its  laws. 

“ Of  God’s  Universal  Providence,  ruling  all,  and  compris- 
ing ALL. 

“ Wherefore  the  great  and  mighty  God  ; He  that  made 
man  a reasonable  creature  of  soul  and  body,  and  He  that  did 
neither  let  him  pass  unpunished  for  his  sin,  nor  yet  excluded 
him  from  mercy  ; He  that  gave,  both  unto  good  and  bad,  es- 
sence with  the  stones,  power  of  production  with  the  trees, 
senses  with  the  beasts  of  the  field,  and  understanding  with  the 
angels ; He  from  whom  is  all  being,  beauty,  form,  and  order, 
number,  weight,  and  measure  ; He  from  whom  all  nature, 
mean  and  excellent,  all  seeds  of  form,  all  forms  of  seed,  all 
motion,  both  of  forms  and  seeds,  derive  and  have  being ; He 
that  gave  flesh  the  original  beauty,  strength,  propagation, 
form  and  shape,  health  and  symmetry  ; He  that  gave  the  un- 
reasonable soul,  sense,  memory,  and  appetite  ; the  reasonable, 
besides  these,  fantasy,  understanding,  and  will ; He,  I say, 
having  left  neither  heaven,  nor  earth,  nor  angel,  nor  man,  no, 
nor  the  most  base  and  contemptible  creature,  neither  the 
bird’s  feather,  nor  the  herb’s  flower,  nor  the  tree’s  leaf,  with- 
out the  true  harmony  of  their  parts,  and  peaceful  concord  of 
composition  : — It  is  in  no  way  credible  that  He  would  leave 
the  kingdoms  of  men  and  their  bondages  and  freedom  loose 
and  uncomprised  in  the  laws  of  His  eternal  providence.”* 

This  for  the  philosophy. f Next,  I take  for  example  of  the 
Religion  of  our  ancestors,  a prayer,  personally  and  passion- 
ately offered  to  the  Deity  conceived  as  you  have  this  moment 
heard. 

* From  St.  Augustine’s  ‘Citie  of  God,’  BookV.,  ch.  xi.  (English  trans., 
printed  by  George  Eld,  1610.) 

fHere  one  of  the  “Stones  of  Westminster”  was  shown  and  com- 
mented on. 


410 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


“ O Thou  who  art  the  Father  of  that  Son  which  has  awak- 
ened us,  and  yet  urgeth  us  out  of  the  sleep  of  our  sins,  and 
exhorteth  us  that  we  become  Thine  ; ” (note  you  that,  for  ap- 
prehension of  what  Redemption  means,  against  your  base  and 
cowardly  modem  notion  of  ’scaping  whipping.  Not  to  take 
away  the  Punishment  of  Sin,  but  by  His  Resurrection  to  raise 
us  out  of  the  sleep  of  sin  itself  ! Compare  the  legend  at  the 
feet  of  the  Lion  of  the  Tribe  of  Judah  in  the  golden  Gospel 
of  Charles  le  Chauve  * : — 

“Hie  Leo  Surgendo  port  as  confregit  Ayerni 

Qui  NUNQUAM  DORMIT,  NUSQUAM  DORMITAT  IN  2EVUM  J ”) 

“ to  Thee,  Lord,  I pray,  who  art  the  supreme  truth  ; for  all 
the  truth  that  is,  is  truth  from  Thee.  Thee  I implore,  0 
Lord,  who  art  the  highest  wisdom.  Through  Thee  are  wise 
all  those  that  are  so.  Thou  art  the  true  life,  and  through  Thee 
are  living  all  those  that  are  so.  Thou  art  the  supreme  felicity, 
and  from  Thee  all  have  become  happy  that  are  so.  Thou  art 
the  highest  good,  and  from  thee  all  beauty  springs.  Thou 
art  the  intellectual  light,  and  from  Thee  man  derives  his  un- 
derstanding. 

“To  Thee,  O God,  I call  and  speak.  Hear,  O hear  me, 
Lord  ! for  Thou  art  my  God  and  my  Lord  ; my  Father  and 
my  Creator  ; my  ruler  and  my  hope  ; my  wealth  and  my  hon- 
our ; my  house,  my  country,  my  salvation,  and  my  life  ! Hear, 
hear  me,  O Lord  ! Few  of  Thy  servants  comprehend  Thee. 
But  Thee  alone  I love,-\  indeed,  above  all  other  things.  Thee 
I seek : Thee  I will  follow  : Thee  I am  ready  to  serve.  Un- 
der Thy  power  I desire  to  abide,  for  Thou  alone  art  the  Sov- 
ereign of  all.  I pray  Thee  to  command  me  as  Thou  wilt.” 

You  see  this  prayer  is  simply  the  expansion  of  that  clause 
of  the  Lord’s  Prayer  which  most  men  eagerly  omit  from  it,— 

* At  Munich  : the  leaf  has  been  exquisitely  drawn  and  legend  com  - 
municated  to  me  by  Prof.  Westwood.  It  is  written  in  gold  on  purple. 

f Meaning — not  that  he  is  of  those  few,  but  that,  without  comprehend 
ing,  at  least,  as  a dog,  he  can  love. 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  FAITH. 


411 


Fiat  voluntas  tua.  In  being  so,  it  sums  the  Christian  prayer 
of  all  ages.  See  now,  in  the  third  place,  how  far  this  king’s 
letter  I am  going  to  read  to  you  sums  also  Christian  Policy. 

“ Wherefore  I render  high  thanks  to  Almighty  God,  for  the 
happy  accomplishment  of  all  the  desires  which  I have  set  be- 
fore me,  and  for  the  satisfying  of  my  every  wish. 

“ Now  therefore,  be  it  known  to  you  all,  that  to  Almighty 
God  Himself  I have,  on  my  knees,  devoted  my  life,  to  the  end 
that  in  all  things  I may  do  justice,  and  with  justice  and  right- 
ness rule  the  kingdoms  and  peoples  under  me ; throughout 
everything  preserving  an  impartial  judgment.  If,  heretofore, 
I have,  through  being,  as  young  men  are,  impulsive  or  care- 
less, done  anything  unjust,  I mean,  with  God’s  help,  to  lose  no 
time  in  remedying  my  fault.  To  which  end  I call  to  witness 
my  counsellors,  to  whom  I have  entrusted  the  counsels  of  the 
kingdom,  and  I charge  them  that  by  no  means,  be  it  through 
fear  of  me,  or  the  favour  of  any  other  powerful  personage,  to 
consent  to  any  injustice,  or  to  suffer  any  to  shoot  out  in  any 
part  of  my  kingdom.  I charge  all  my  viscounts  and  those  set 
over  my  whole  kingdom,  as  they  wish  to  keep  my  friendship 
or  their  own  safety,  to  use  no  unjust  force  to  any  man,  rich  or 
poor ; let  all  men,  noble  and  not  noble,  rich  and  poor  alike,  be 
able  to  obtain  their  rights  under  the  law’s  justice  ; and  from 
that  law  let  there  be  no  deviation,  either  to  favour  the  king  or 
any  powerful  person,  nor  to  raise  money  for  me.  I have  no 
need  of  money  raised  by  what  is  unfair.  I also  would  have 
you  know  that  I go  now  to  make  peace  and  firm  treaty  by  the 
counsels  of  all  my  subjects,  with  those  nations  and  people  who 
wished,  had  it  been  possible  for  them  to  do  so,  which  it  was 
not,  to  deprive  us  alike  of  kingdom  and  of  life.  God  brought 
down  their  strength  to  nought : and  may  He  of  His  benign 
love  preserve  us  on  our  throne  and  in  honour.  Lastly,  when 
I have  made  peace  with  the  neighbouring  nations,  and  settled 
and  pacified  all  my  dominions  in  the  East,  so  that  we  may  no- 
where have  any  war  or  enmity  to  fear,  I mean  to  come  to  Eng- 
land this  summer,  as  soon  as  I can  fit  out  vessels  to  sail.  My 
reason,  however,  in  sending  this  letter  first  is  to  let  all  the 


412 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


people  of  my  kingdom  share  in  the  joy  of  my  welfare : for  aa 
you  yourselves  know,  I have  never  spared  myself  or  my  labour; 
nor  will  I ever  do  so,  where  my  people  are  really  in  want  of 
some  good  that  I can  do  them.” 

What  think  you  now,  in  candour  and  honour,  you  youth  of 
the  latter  days, — what  think  you  of  these  types  of  the  thought, 
devotion,  and  government,  which  not  in  words,  but  pregnant 
and  perpetual  fact,  animated  these  which  you  have  been  ac- 
customed to  call  the  Dark  Ages  ? 

The  Philosophy  is  Augustine’s  ; the  Prayer  Alfred’s  ; and 
the  Letter  Canute’s. 

And,  whatever  you  may  feel  respecting  the  beauty  or  wis- 
dom of  these  sayings,  be  assured  of  one  thing  above  all,  that 
they  are  sincere  ; and  of  another,  less  often  observed,  that  they 
are  joyful. 

Be  assured,  in  the  first  place,  that  they  are  sincere.  The 
ideas  of  diplomacy  and  priestcraft  are  of  recent  times.  No 
false  knight  or  lying  priest  ever  prospered,  I believe,  in  any 
age,  but  certainly  not  in  the  dark  ones.  Men  prospered  then, 
only  in  following  openly-declared  purposes,  and  preaching 
candidly  beloved  and  trusted  creeds. 

And  that  they  did  so  prosper,  in  the  degree  in  which  they 
accepted  and  proclaimed  the  Christian  Gospel,  may  be  seen 
by  any  of  you  in  your  historical  reading,  however  partial,  if 
only  you  will  admit  the  idea  that  it  could  be  so,  and  was 
likely  to  be  so.  You  are  all  of  you  in  the  habit  of  supposing 
that  temporal  prosperity  is  owing  either  to  worldly  chance  or 
to  worldly  prudence  ; and  is  never  granted  in  any  visible  re- 
lation to  states  of  religious  temper.  Put  that  treacherous 
doubt  away  from  you,  with  disdain  ; take  for  basis  of  reason- 
ing the  noble  postulate,  that  the  elements  of  Christian  faith 
are  sound, — instead  of  the  base  one,  that  they  are  deceptive  ; 
reread  the  great  story  of  the  world  in  that  light,  and  see  what 
a vividly  real,  yet  miraculous  tenor,  it  will  then  bear  to  you. 

Their  faith  then,  I tell  you  first,  was  sincere ; I tell  you 
secondly  that  it  was,  in  a degree  few  of  us  can  now  conceive, 
joyfuL  We  continually  hear  of  the  trials,  sometimes  of  the 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  FAITH. 


413 


victories,  of  Faith, — but  scarcely  ever  of  its  pleasures.  Where- 
as, at  this  time,  you  -will  find  that  the  chief  delight  of  all  good 
men  was  in  the  recognition  of  the  goodness  and  wisdom  of 
the  Master,  who  had  come  to  dwell  with  them  upon  earth.  It 
is  almost  impossible  for  you  to  conceive  the  vividness  of  this 
sense  in  them  ; it  is  totally  impossible  for  you  to  conceive  the 
comfort,  peace,  and  force  of  it.  In  everything  that  you  now 
do  or  seek,  you  expose  yourselves  to  countless  miseries  of 
shame  and  disappointment,  because  in  your  doing  you  depend 
on  nothing  but  your  own  powers,  and  in  seeking  choose  only 
your  own  gratification.  You  cannot  for  the  most  part  con- 
ceive of  any  work  but  for  your  own  interests,  or  the  interests 
of  others  about  whom  you  are  anxious  in  the  same  faithless 
way ; everything  about  which  passion  is  excited  in  you  or 
skill  exerted  is  some  object  of  material  life,  and  the  idea  of 
doing  anything  except  for  your  own  praise  or  profit  has  nar- 
rowed itself  into  little  more  than  the  precentor’s  invitation  to 
the  company  with  little  voice  and  less  practice  to  “ sing  to  the 
praise  and  glory  of  God.” 

I have  said  that  you  cannot  imagine  the  feeling  of  the 
energy  of  daily  life  applied  in  the  real  meaning  of  those 
words.  You  cannot  imagine  it,  but  you  can  prove  it.  Are 
any  of  you  willing,  simply  as  a philosophical  experiment  in 
the  greatest  of  sciences,  to  adopt  the  principles  and  feelings 
of  these  men  of  a thousand  years  ago  for  a given  time,  say  for 
a year  ? It  cannot  possibly  do  you  any  harm  to  try,  and  you 
cannot  possibly  learn  what  is  true  in  these  things,  without 
trying.  If  after  a year’s  experience  of  such  method  you  find 
yourself  no  happier  than  before,  at  least  you  will  be  able  to 
support  your  present  opinions  at  once  with  more  grace  and 
more  modesty ; having  conceded  the  trial  it  asked  for,  to  the 
opposite  side.  Nor  in  acting  temporarily  on  a faith  you  do 
not  see  to  be  reasonable,  do  you  compromise  your  own  in- 
tegrity more,  than  in  conducting,  under  a chemist’s  directions, 
an  experiment  of  which  he  foretells  inexplicable  consequences. 
And  you  need  not  doubt  the  power  you  possess  over  your 
own  minds  to  do  this.  Were  faith  not  voluntary,  it  could  not 
be  praised,  and  would  not  be  rewarded. 


414 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND . 


If  you  are  minded  thus  to  try,  begin  each  day  with  Alfred’s 
prayer, — fiat  voluntas  tua  ; resolving  that  you  will  stand  to  it, 
and  that  nothing  that  happens  in  the  course  of  the  day  shall 
displease  you.  Then  set  to  any  work  you  have  in  hand  with 
the  sifted  and  purified  resolution  that  ambition  shall  not  mix 
with  it,  nor  love  of  gain,  nor  desire  of  pleasure  more  than  is 
appointed  for  you  ; and  that  no  anxiety  shall  touch  you  as  to 
its  issue,  nor  any  impatience  nor  regret  if  it  faiL  Imagine  that 
the  thing  is  being  done  through  you,  not  by  you : that  the 
good  of  it  may  never  be  known,  but  that  at  least,  unless  by 
your  rebellion  or  foolishness,  there  can  come  no  evil  into  it, 
nor  wrong  chance  to  it.  Resolve  also  with  steady  industry  to 
do  what  you  can  for  the  help  of  your  country  and  its  honour, 
and  the  honour  of  its  God  ; and  that  you  will  not  join  hands  in 
its  iniquity,  nor  turn  aside  from  its  misery  ; and  that  in  all  you 
do  and  feel  you  will  look  frankly  for  the  immediate  help  and 
direction,  and  to  your  own  consciences,  expressed  approval,  of 
God.  Live  thus,  and  believe,  and  with  swiftness  of  answer 
proportioned  to  the  frankness  of  the  trust,  most  surely  the 
God  of  hope  will  fill  you  with  all  joy  and  peace  in  believing. 

But,  if  you  will  not  do  this,  if  you  have  not  courage  nor 
heart  enough  to  break  away  the  fetters  of  earth,  and  take  up 
the  sensual  bed  of  it,  and  walk  ; if  you  say  that  you  are  bound 
to  win  this  thing,  and  become  the  other  thing,  and  that  the 
wishes  of  your  friends, — and  the  interests  of  your  family, — 
and  the  bias  of  your  genius, — and  the  expectations  of  your 
college, — and  all  the  rest  of  the  bow-wow-wow  of  the  wild 
dog-world,  must  be  attended  to,  whether  you  like  it  or  no, — 
then,  at  least,  for  shame  give  up  talk  about  being  free  or  in- 
dependent creatures  ; recognize  yourselves  for  slaves  in  whom 
the  thoughts  are  put  in  ward  with  their  bodies,  and  their 
hearts  manacled  with  their  hands  : and  then  at  least  also,  for 
shame,  if  you  refuse  to  believe  that  ever  there  were  men  who 
gave  their  souls  to  God, — know  and  confess  how  surely  there 
are  those  who  sell  them  to  His  adversary. 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  DEED. 


415 


LECTUBE  HI. 

THE  PLEASURES  OF  DEED. 

Alfred,  to  Goeur  de  Lion. 

It  was  my  endeavour,  in  the  preceding  lecture,  to  vindicate 
the  thoughts  and  arts  of  our  Saxon  ancestors  from  whatever 
scorn  might  lie  couched  under  the  terms  applied  to  them  by 
Dean  Stanley, — 4 fantastic,’  and  ‘ childish.’  To-day  my  task 
must  be  carried  forward,  first,  in  asserting  the  grace  in  fan- 
tasy, and  the  force  in  infancy,  of  the  English  mind,  before 
the  Conquest,  against  the  allegations  contained  in  the  final 
passage  of  Dean  Stanley’s  description  of  the  first  founded 
Westminster ; a passage  which  accepts  and  asserts,  more  dis- 
tinctly than  any  other  equally  brief  statement  I have  met 
with,  the  to  my  mind  extremely  disputable  theory,  that  the 
Norman  invasion  was  in  every  respect  a sanitary,  moral,  and 
intellectual  blessing  to  England,  and  that  the  arrow  which 
slew  her  Harold  was  indeed  the  Arrow  of  the  Lord’s  deliver- 
ance. 

“The  Abbey  itself,”  says  Dean  Stanley, — “the  chief  work 
of  the  Confessor’s  life, — was  the  portent  of  the  mighty  future. 
When  Harold  stood  beside  his  sister  Edith,  on  the  day  of  the 
dedication,  and  signed  his  name  with  hers  as  witness  to  the 
Charter  of  the  Abbey,  he  might  have  seen  that  he  was  sealing  his 
own  doom,  and  preparing  for  his  own  destruction.  The  solid 
pillars,  the  ponderous  arches,  the  huge  edifice,  with  triple  tower 
and  sculptured  stones  and  storied  windows,  that  arose  in  the 
place  and  in  the  midst  of  the  humble  wooden  churches  and 
wattled  tenements  of  the  Saxon  period,  might  have  warned  the 
nobles  who  were  present  that  the  days  of  their  rule  were  num- 
bered, and  that  the  avenging , civilizing , stimulating  hand  of  an- 
other and  a mightier  race  was  at  work,  which  would  change 
the  whole  face  of  their  language,  their  manners,  their  Church, 
and  their  commonwealth.  The  Abbey,  so  far  exceeding  the 
demands  of  the  dull  and  stagnant  minds  of  our  Anglo-Saxon  an- 


416 


TEE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


cestors,  was  founded  not  only  in  faith,  but  in  hope : in  the 
hope  that  England  had  yet  a glorious  career  to  run  ; that  the 
line  of  her  sovereigns  would  not  be  broken,  even  when  the 
race  of  Alfred  had  ceased  to  reign.” 

There  must  surely  be  some  among  my  hearers  who  are 
startled,  if  not  offended,  at  being  told  in  the  terms  which  1 
emphasized  in  this  sentence,  that  the  minds  of  our  Saxon 
fathers  were,  although  fantastic,  dull,  and,  although  childish, 
stagnant ; that  farther,  in  their  fantastic  stagnation,  they  were 
savage, — and  in  their  innocent  dullness,  criminal ; so  that  the 
future  character  and  fortune  of  the  race  depended  on  the 
critical  advent  of  the  didactic  and  disciplinarian  Norman 
baron,  at  once  to  polish  them,  stimulate,  and  chastise. 

Before  I venture  to  say  a word  in  distinct  arrest  of  this 
judgment,  I will  give  you  a chart,  as  clear  as  the  facts  ob- 
served in  the  two  previous  lectures  allow,  of  the  state  and 
prospects  of  the  Saxons,  when  this  violent  benediction  of  con- 
quest happened  to  them  : and  especially  I would  rescue, 
in  the  measure  that  justice  bids,  the  memory  even  of  their 
Pagan  religion  from  the  general  scorn  in  which  I used  Car- 
lyle’s description  of  the  idol  of  ancient  Prussia  as  universally 
exponent  of  the  temper  of  Northern  devotion.  That  Triglaph, 
or  Triglyph  Idol,  (derivation  of  Triglaph  wholly  unknown  to 
me — I use  Triglyph  only  for  my  own  handiest  epithet),  last 
set  up,  on  what  is  now  St.  Mary’s  hill  in  Brandenburg,  in 
1023,  belonged  indeed  to  a people  wonderfully  like  the  Sax- 
ons,— geographically  their  close  neighbours, — in  habits  of 
life,  and  aspect  of  native  land,  scarcely  distinguishable  from 
them, — in  Carlyle’s  words,  a “strong-boned,  iracund,  herds- 
man and  fisher  people,  highly  averse  to  be  interfered  with,  in 
their  religion  especially,  and  inhabiting  a moory  flat  country, 
full  of  lakes  and  woods,  but  with  plenty  also  of  alluvial  mud, 
grassy,  frugiferous,  apt  for  the  plough  ” — in  all  things  like 
the  Saxons,  except,  as  I read  the  matter,  in  that  4 aversion  to 
be  interfered  with  ’ which  you  modem  English  think  an  espe- 
cially Saxon  character  in  you — but  which  is,  on  the  contrary, 
you  will  find  on  examination,  by  no  means  Saxon  ; but  only 
Wendisch,  Czech,  Serbic,  Sclavic, — other  hard  names  I could 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  DEED. 


417 


easily  find  for  it  among  the  tribes  of  that  vehemently  heathen 
old  Preussen—  “ resolutely  worshipful  of  places  of  oak  trees, 
of  wooden  or  stone  idols,  of  Bangputtis,  Patkullos,  and  I know 
not  what  diabolic  dumb  blocks.”  Your  English  “ dislike  to 
be  interfered  with  ” is  in  absolute  fellowship  with  these,  but 
only  gathers  itself  in  its  places  of  Stalks,  or  chimneys,  in- 
stead of  oak  trees,  round  its  idols  of  iron,  instead  of  wood, 
diabolically  vocal  now ; strident,  and  sibilant,  instead  of  dumb. 

Far  other  than  these,  their  neighbour  Saxons,  Jutes  and 
Angles  ! — tribes  between  whom  the  distinctions  are  of  no  mo- 
ment whatsoever,  except  that  an  English  boy  or  girl  may  with 
grace  remember  that  f Old  England,’  exactly  and  strictly  so 
called,  was  the  small  district  in  the  extreme  south  of  Den- 
mark, totally  with  its  islands  estimable  at  sixty  miles  square 
of  dead  flat  land.  Directly  south  of  it,  the  definitely  so-called 
Saxons  held  the  western  shore  of  Holstein,  with  the  estuary 
of  the  Elbe,  and  the  sea-mark  isle,  Heligoland.  But  since 
the  principal  temple  of  Saxon  worship  was  close  to  Leipsic,* 
we  may  include  under  our  general  term,  Saxons,  the  inhabi- 
tants of  the  whole  level  district  of  North  Germany,  from  the 
Gulf  of  Flensburg  to  the  Hartz  ; and,  eastward,  all  the  coun- 
try watered  by  the  Elbe  as  far  as  Saxon  Switzerland. 

Of  the  character  of  this  race  I will  not  here  speak  at  any 
length  : only  note  of  it  this  essential  point,  that  their  religion 
was  at  once  more  practical  and  more  imaginative  than  that  of 
the  Norwegian  peninsula  ; the  Norse  religion  being  the  con- 
ception rather  of  natural  than  moral  powers,  but  the  Saxon, 
primarily  of  moral,  as  the  lords  of  natural — their  central  di- 
vine image,  Irminsul,*)-  holding  the  standard  of  peace  in  her 
right  hand,  a balance  in  her  left.  Such  a religion  may  de- 
generate into  mere  slaughter  and  rapine  ; but  it  has  the 
making  in  it  of  the  noblest  men. 

More  practical  at  all  events,  whether  for  good  or  evil,  in 
this  trust  in  a future  reward  for  courage  and  purity,  than  the 
mere  Scandinavian  awe  of  existing  Earth  and  Cloud,  the 
Saxon  religion  was  also  more  imaginative,  in  its  nearer  con- 

* Turner,  vol.  i.  p.  228. 

f Properly  plural  ‘ Images  ’ — Irminsul  and  Irminsula. 


418 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


ception  of  human  feeling  in  divine  creatures.  And  when  this 
wide  hope  and  high  reverence  had  distinct  objects  of  worship 
and  prayer,  offered  to  them  by  Christianity,  the  Saxons  easily 
became  pure,  passionate,  and  thoughtful  Christians;  while 
the  Normans,  to  the  last,  had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  appre- 
hending the  Christian  teaching  of  the  Franks,  and  still  deny 
the  power  of  Christianity,  even  when  they  have  become  in- 
veterate in  its  form. 

Quite  the  deepest-thoughted  creatures  of  the  then  animate 
world,  it  seems  to  me,  these  Saxon  ploughmen  of  the  sand  or 
the  sea,  with  their  worshipped  deity  of  Beauty  and  Justice,  a 
red  rose  on  her  banner,  for  best  of  gifts,  and  in  her  right  hand, 
instead  of  a sword,  a balance,  for  due  doom,  without  wrath, 
— of  retribution  in  her  left.  Far  other  than  the  Wends, 
though  stubborn  enough,  they  too,  in  battle  rank, — seven 
times  rising  from  defeat  against  Charlemagne,  and  unsubdued 
but  by  death — yet,  by  no  means  in  that  John  Bull’s  manner 
of  yours,  ‘ averse  to  be  interfered  with,’  in  their  opinions,  or 
their  religion.  Eagerly  docile  on  the  contrary — joyfully  rev- 
erent— instantly  and  gratefully  acceptant  of  whatever  better 
insight  or  oversight  a stranger  could  bring  them,  of  the  things 
of  God  or  man. 

And  let  me  here  ask  you  especially  to  take  account  of  that 
origin  of  the  true  bearing  of  the  Flag  of  England,  the  Bed 
Bose.  Her  own  madness  defiled  afterwards  alike  the  white 
and  red,  into  images  of  the  paleness,  or  the  crimson,  of  death  ; 
but  the  Saxon  Bose  was  the  symbol  of  heavenly  beauty  and 
peace. 

I told  you  in  my  first  lecture  that  one  swift  requirement  in 
our  school  would  be  to  produce  a beautiful  map  of  England, 
including  old  Northumberland,  giving  the  whole  country,  in 
its  real  geography,  between  the  Frith  of  Forth  and  Straits  of 
Dover,  and  with  only  six  sites  of  habitation  given,  besides 
those  of  Edinburgh  and  London, — namely,  those  of  Canter- 
bury and  "Winchester,  York  and  Lancaster,  Holy  Island  and 
Melrose  ; the  latter  instead  of  Iona,  because,  as  we  have  seen, 
the  influence  of  St.  Columba  expires  with  the  advance  of 
Christianity,  wrhile  that  of  Cuthbert  of  Melrose  connects  itself 


TEE  PLEASURES  OF  DEED. 


419 


with  the  most  sacred  feelings  of  the  entire  Northumbrian 
kingdom,  and  Scottish  border,  down  to  the  days  of  Scott — 
wreathing  also  into  its  circle  many  of  the  legends  of  Arthur. 
Will  you  forgive  my  connecting  the  personal  memory  of 
having  once  had  a wild  rose  gathered  for  me,  in  the  glen  of 
Thomas  the  Rhymer,  by  the  daughter  of  one  of  the  few  re- 
maining Catholic  houses  of  Scotland,  with  the  pleasure  I have 
in  reading  to  you  this  following  true  account  of  the  origin  of 
the  name  of  St.  Cuthbert’s  birthplace  ; — the  rather  because  I 
owe  it  to  friendship  of  the  same  date,  with  Mr.  Cockburn 
Muir,  of  Melrose. 

“ To  those  W'ho  have  eyes  to  read  it,”  says  Mr.  Muir,  “ the 
name  ‘ Melrose  ’ is  written  full  and  fair,  on  the  fair  face  of  all 
this  reach  of  the  valley.  The  name  is  anciently  spelt  Mailros, 
and  later,  Malros,  never  Mulros  ; (‘  Mul  ’ being  the  Celtic  word 
taken  to  mean  ‘ bare  ’).  Eos  is  Rose  ; the  forms  Meal  or  Mol 
imply  great  quantity  or  number.  Thus  Malros  means  the 
place  of  many  roses. 

“ This  is  precisely  the  notable  characteristic  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood. The  wild  rose  is  indigenous.  There  is  no  nook 
nor  cranny,  no  bank  nor  brae,  which  is  not,  in  the  time  of 
roses,  ablaze  with  their  exuberant  loveliness.  In  gardens,  the 
cultured  rose  is  so  prolific  that  it  spreads  literally  like  a weed. 
But  it  is  worth  suggestion  that  the  word  may  be  of  the  same 
stock  as  the  Hebrew  rosh  (translated  ros  by  the  Septuagint), 
meaning  chief  ’ principal  while  it  is  also  the  name  of  some 
flower ; but  of  which  flower  is  now  unknown.  Affinities  of 
rosh  are  not  far  to  seek  ; Sanskrit,  Raj( a),  12<z(ja)m ; Latin, 
Rex,  Reg  (mu).” 

I leave  it  to  Professor  Max  Muller  to  certify  or  correct  for 
you  the  details  of  Mr.  Cockburn’s  research,* — this  main  head 

* I had  not  time  to  quote  it  fully  in  the  lecture  ; and  in  my  ignorance, 
alike  of  Keltic  and  Hebrew,  can  only  submit  it  here  to  the  reader’s  ex- 
amination. “ The  ancient  Cognizance  of  the  town  confirms  this  etymol- 
ogy beyond  doubt,  with  customary  heraldic  precision.  The  shield  bears 
a Rose  ; with  a Maul , as  the  exact  phonetic  equivalent  for  the  expletive. 
If  the  herald  had  needed  to  express  ‘ bare  promontory,’  quite  certainly 
he  would  have  managed  it  somehow.  Not  only  this,  the  Earls  of 


420 


TEE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


of  it  I can  positively  confirm,  that  in  old  Scotch,— that  of 
Bishop  Douglas, — the  word  ‘ Rois  ’ stands  alike  for  King,  and 

Rose. 

Summing  now  the  features  I have  too  shortly  specified  in 
the  Saxon  character, — its  imagination,  its  docility,  its  love  of 
knowledge,  and  its  love  of  beauty,  you  will  be  prepared  to  ac- 
cept my  conclusive  statement,  that  they  gave  rise  to  a form  of 
Christian  faith  which  appears  to  me,  in  the  present  state  of 
my  knowledge,  one  of  the  purest  and  most  intellectual  ever  at- 
tained in  Christendom  ; — never  yet  understood,  partly  because 
of  the  extreme  rudeness  of  its  expression  in  the  art  of  manu- 
scripts, and  partly  because,  on  account  of  its  very  purity,  it 
sought  no  expression  in  architecture,  being  a religion  of  daily 
life,  and  humble  lodging.  For  these  two  practical  reasons, 
first ; — and  for  this  more  weighty  third,  that  the  intellectual 
character  of  it  is  at  the  same  time  most  truly,  as  Dean  Stanley 
told  you,  childlike  ; showing  itself  in  swiftness  of  imaginative 
apprehension,  and  in  the  fearlessly  candid  application  of  great 
principles  to  small  things.  Its  character  in  this  kind  may  be 
instantly  felt  by  any  sympathetic  and  gentle  person  who  will 
read  carefully  the  book  I have  already  quoted  to  you,  the  Ven- 
erable Bede’s  life  of  St.  Cuthbert ; and  the  intensity  and  sin- 
cerity of  it  in  the  highest  orders  of  the  laity,  by  simply  count- 
ing the  members  of  Saxon  Royal  families  who  ended  their  lives 
in  monasteries. 

Haddington  were  first  created  Earls  of  Eelrose  (1619) ; and  their  Shield, 
quarterly,  is  charged,  for  Melrose,  in  2d  and  3d  (fesse  wavy  between) 

three  Roses  gu. 

“ Beyond  this  ground  of  certainty,  we  may  indulge  in  a little  excur- 
sus into  lingual  affinities  of  wide  range.  The  root  mol  is  clear  enough. 
It  is  of  the  same  stock  as  the  Greek  mala,  Latin  ),  and  Hebrew 

m'la.  But,  Rose  ? We  call  her  Queen  of  Flowers,  and  since  before  the 
Persian  poets  made  much  of  her,  she  was  everywhere  Regina  Floninij 
why  should  not  the  name  mean  simply  the  Queen,  the  Chief  ? Now, 
so  few  who  know  Keltic  know  also  Hebrew,  and  so  few  who  know  He- 
brew know  also  Keltic,  that  few  know  the  surprising  extent  of  the  af- 
finity that  exists — clear  as  day — between  the  Keltic  and  the  Hebrew 
vocabularies.  That  the  word  Rose  may  be  a case  in  point  is  not  hazard 
ously  speculative.” 


THE  PLEASURES  OE  DEED. 


421 


Now,  at  the  very  moment  when  this  faith,  innocence,  and 
ingenuity  were  on  the  point  of  springing  up  into  their  fruit- 
age, comes  the  Northern  invasion  ; of  the  real  character  of 
which  you  can  gain  a far  truer  estimate  by  studying  Alfred’s 
former  resolute  contest  with  and  victory  over  the  native  Nor- 
man in  his  paganism,  than  by  your  utmost  endeavours  to  con- 
ceive the  character  of  the  afterwards  invading  Norman,  dis- 
guised, but  not  changed,  by  Christianity.  The  Norman  could 
not,  in  the  nature  of  him,  become  a Christian  at  all  ; and  he 
never  did  ; — he  only  became,  at  his  best,  the  enemy  of  the 
Saracen.  What  he  was,  and  what  alone  he  was  capable  of 
being,  I will  try  to-day  to  explain. 

And  here  I must  advise  you  that  in  all  points  of  history  re- 
lating to  the  period  between  800  and  1200,  you  will  find  M. 
Viollet  le  Due,  incidentally  throughout  his  ‘Dictionary  of 
Architecture,’  the  best-informed,  most  intelligent,  and  most 
thoughtful  of  guides.  His  knowledge  of  architecture,  carried 
down  into  the  most  minutely  practical  details, — (which  are  often 
the  most  significant),  and  embracing,  over  the  entire  surface 
of  France,  the  buildings  even  of  the  most  secluded  villages  ; 
his  artistic  enthusiasm,  balanced  by  the  acutest  sagacity,  and 
his  patriotism,  by  the  frankest  candour,  render  his  analy- 
sis of  history  during  that  active  and  constructive  period  the 
most  valuable  known  to  me,  and  certainly,  in  its  field,  exhaust- 
ive. Of  the  later  nationality  his  account  is  imperfect,  owing 
to  his  professional  interest  in  the  mere  science  of  architecture, 
and  comparative  insensibility  to  the  power  of  sculpture  ; — 
but  of  the  time  with  which  we  are  now  concerned,  whatever 
he  tells  you  must  be  regarded  with  grateful  attention. 

I introduce,  therefore,  the  Normans  to  you,  on  their  first 
entering  France,  under  his  descriptive  terms  of  them.* 

“ As  soon  as  they  were  established  on  the  soil,  these  bar- 
barians became  the  most  hardy  and  active  builders.  Within 
the  space  of  a century  and  a half,  they  had  covered  the  coun- 
try on  which  they  had  definitely  landed,  with  religious,  mon- 
astic, and  civil  edifices,  of  an  extent  and  richness  then  little 


* Article  “Architecture,”  vol.  i.,  p.  138. 


422 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


common.  It  is  difficult  to  suppose  that  they  had  brought 
from  Norway  the  elements  of  art,*  but  they  were  possessed  by 
a persisting  and  penetrating  spirit ; their  brutal  force  did  not 
want  for  grandeur.  Conquerors,  they  raised  castles  to  as- 
sure their  domination  ; they  soon  recognized  the  Moral  force 
of  the  clergy,  and  endowed  it  richly.  Eager  always  to  attain 
their  end,  when  once  they  saw  it,  they  never  left  one  of  their 
enterprises  unfinished , and  in  that  they  differed  completely  from 
the  Southern  inhabitants  of  Gaul.  Tenacious  extremely,  they 
were  perhaps  the  only  ones  among  the  barbarians  estab- 
lished in  France  who  had  ideas  of  order ; the  only  ones  who 
knew  how  to  preserve  their  conquests,  and  compose  a state. 
They  found  the  remains  of  the  Carthaginian  arts  on  the 
territory  where  they  planted  themselves,  they  mingled 
with  those  their  national  genius,  positive,  grand,  and  yet 
supple.” 

Supple,  * Delie,’ — capable  of  change  and  play  of  the  mental 
muscle,  in  the  way  that  savages  are  not.  I do  not,  myself, 
grant  this  suppleness  to  the  Norman,  the  less  because  another 
sentence  of  M.  le  Due’s,  occurring  incidentally  in  his  account 
of  the  archivolt,  is  of  extreme  counter-significance,  and  wide 
application.  “ The  Norman  arch,”  he  says,  “ is  never  derived 
from  traditional  classic  forms , but  only  from  mathematical  ar- 
rangement of  line.”  Yes  ; that  is  true  : the  Norman  arch  is 
never  derived  from  classic  forms.  The  cathedral, f whose  aisles 
you  saw  or  might  have  seen,  yesterday,  interpenetrated  with 
light,  whose  vaults  you  might  have  heard  prolonging  the 
sweet  divisions  of  majestic  sound,  would  have  been  built  in 
that  stately  symmetry  by  Norman  law,  though  never  an  arch 
at  Home  had  risen  round  her  field  of  blood, — though  never 
her  Sublician  bridge  had  been  petrified  by  her  Augustan  pon- 
tifices.  But  the  decoration,  though  not  the  structure  of  those 
arches,  they  owed  to  another  race,|  whose  words  they  stole 
without  understanding,  though  three  centuries  before,  the 

* They  had  brought  some,  of  a variously  Charybdic,  Serpentine  and 
Diabolic  character. — J.  R. 

f Of  Oxford,  during  the  afternoon  service. 

t See  the  concluding  section  of  the  lecture. 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  HEED . 


423 


Saxon  understood,  and  used,  to  express  tlie  most  solemn  maj- 
esty of  his  Kinghood, — 

“EGO  EDGAR,  TOTIVS  ALBIONIS ”— 

not  Rex,  that  would  have  meant  the  King  of  Kent  or  Mercia, 
not  of  England,— no,  nor  Imperator  ; that  would  have  meant 
only  the  profane  power  of  Rome,  but  BASTLEVS,  meaning  a 
King  who  reigned  with  sacred  authority  given  by  Heaven  and 
Christ. 

With  far  meaner  thoughts,  both  of  themselves  and  their 
powers,  the  Normans  set  themselves  to  build  impregnable 
military  walls,  and  sublime  religious  ones,  in  the  best  possi- 
ble practical  ways ; but  they  no  more  made  books  of  their 
church  fronts  than  of  their  bastion  flanks  ; and  cared,  in  the 
religion  they  accepted,  neither  for  its  sentiments  nor  its 
promises,  but  only  for  its  immediate  results  on  national  order. 

As  I read  them,  they  were  men  wholly  of  this  world,  bent 
on  doing  the  most  in  it,  and  making  the  best  of  it  that  they 
could  men,  to  their  death,  of  Deed,  never  pausing,  chang- 
ing, repenting,  or  anticipating,  more  than  the  completed 
square,  aveu  i poyov,  of  their  battle,  their  keep,  and  their 
cloister.  Soldiers  before  and  after  everything,  they  learned 
the  lockings  and  bracings  of  their  stones  primarily  in  defence 
against  the  battering-ram  and  the  projectile,  and  esteemed 
the  pure  circular  arch  for  its  distributed  and  equal  strength 
more  than  for  its  beauty.  “ I believe  again,”  says  M.  le  Due,* 
“that  the  feudal  castle  never  arrived  at  its  perfectness  till 
after  the  Norman  invasion,  and  that  this  race  of  the  North 
was  the  first  to  apply  a defensive  system  under  unquestiona- 
ble laws,  soon  followed  by  the  nobles  of  the  Continent,  after 
they  had,  at  their  own  expense,  learned  their  superiority.” 

The  next  sentence  is  a curious  one.  I pray  your  attention 
to  it.  “ The  defensive  system  of  the  Norman  is  born  of  a 
profound  sentiment  of  distrust  and  cunning  foreign  to  the 
character  of  the  Frank.”  You  will  find  in  all  my  previous 
notices  of  the  French,  continual  insistance  upon  their  natural 


* Article  “Chateau,”  vol.  iii.,  p.  65. 


424 


TEE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


Franchise,  and  also,  if  you  take  the  least  pains  in  analysis  of 
their  literature  down  to  this  day,  that  the  idea  of  falseness  is 
to  them  indeed  more  hateful  than  to  any  other  European  na- 
tion. To  take  a quite  cardinal  instance.  If  you  compare 
Lucian’s  and  Shakespeare’s  Timon  with  Moliere’s  Alceste,  you 
will  find  the  Greek  and  English  misanthropes  dwell  only  on 
men’s  ingratitude  to  themselves,  but  Alceste,  on  their  falsehood 
to  each  other. 

Now  hear  M.  le  Due  farther  : 

“ The  castles  built  between  the  tenth  and  twelfth  centuries 
along  the  Loire,  Gironde,  and  Seine,  that  is  to  say,  along  the 
lines  of  the  Norman  invasions,  and  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
their  possessions,  have  a peculiar  and  uniform  character  which 
one  finds  neither  in  central  France,  nor  in  Burgundy,  nor 
can  there  be  any  need  for  us  to  throw  light  on  ( faire  ressortir) 
the  superiority  of  the  warrior  spirit  of  the  Normans,  during 
the  later  times  of  the  Carlovingian  epoch,  over  the  spirit  of 
the  chiefs  of  Frank  descent,  established  on  the  Gallo-Boman 
soil.”  There’s  a bit  of  honesty  in  a Frenchman  for  you  ! 

I have  just  said  that  they  valued  religion  chiefly  for  its 
influence  of  order  in  the  present  world  : being  in  this,  ob- 
serve, as  nearly  as  may  be  the  exact  reverse  of  modem  be- 
lievers, or  persons  who  profess  to  be  such, — of  whom  it  may 
be  generally  alleged,  too  truly,  that  they  value  religion  with 
respect  to  their  future  bliss  rather  than  their  present  duty  ; 
and  are  therefore  continually  careless  of  its  direct  commands, 
with  easy  excuse  to  themselves  for  disobedience  to  them. 
Whereas  the  Norman,  finding  in  his  own  heart  an  irresistible 
impulse  to  action,  and  perceiving  himself  to  be  set,  with  en- 
tirely strong  body,  brain,  and  will,  in  the  midst  of  a weak 
and  dissolute  confusion  of  all  things,  takes  from  the  Bible  in- 
stantly  into  his  conscience  every  exhortation  to  Do  and  to 
Govern  ; and  becomes,  with  all  his  might  and  understanding, 
a blunt  and  rough  servant,  knecht,  or  knight  of  God,  liable 
to  much  misapprehension,  of  course,  as  to  the  services  imme- 
diately required  of  him,  but  supposing,  since  the  whole  make 
of  him,  outside  and  in,  is  a soldier’s,  that  God  meant  him  for 
a soldier,  and  that  he  is  to  establish,  by  main  force,  the  Chris- 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  DEED. 


425 


tian  faith  and  works  all  over  the  world  so  far  as  he  compre- 
hends them  ; not  merely  with  the  Mahometan  indignation 
against  spiritual  error,  but  with  a sound  and  honest  soul’s 
dislike  of  material  error,  and  resolution  to  extinguish  that, 
even  if  perchance  found  in  the  spiritual  persons  to  whom,  in 
their  office,  he  yet  rendered  total  reverence. 

Which  force  and  faith  in  him  I may  best  illustrate  by 
merely  putting  together  the  broken  paragraphs  of  Sismondi’s 
account  of  the  founding  of  the  Norman  Kingdom  of  Sicily  : 
virtually  contemporary  with  the  conquest  of  England. 

“ The  Normans  surpassed  all  the  races  of  the  west  in  their 
ardour  for  pilgrimages.  They  would  not,  to  go  into  the  Holy 
Land,  submit  to  the  monotony  * of  a long  sea  voyage — the 
rather  that  they  found  not  on  the  Mediterranean  the  storms 
or  dangers  they  had  rejoiced  to  encounter  on  their  own  sea. 
They  traversed  by  land  the  whole  of  France  and  Italy,  trust- 
ing to  their  swords  to  procure  the  necessary  subsistence, f if 
the  charity  of  the  faithful  did  not  enough  provide  for  it  with 
alms.  The  towns  of  Naples,  Amalfi,  Gaeta,  and  Bari,  held 
constant  commerce  with  Syria ; and  frequent  miracles,  it  was 
believed,  illustrated  the  Monte  Cassino,  (St.  Benedict  again !) 
on  the  road  of  Naples,  and  the  Mount  of  Angels  (Garganus) 
above  Bari.”  (Querceta  Gargani — verily,  laborant ; now,  et 
orant.)  “ The  pilgrims  wished  to  visit  during  their  journey 
the  monasteries  built  on  these  two  mountains,  and  therefore 
nearly  always,  either  going  or  returning  to  the  Holy  Land, 
passed  through  Magna  Grascia. 

“ In  one  of  the  earliest  years  of  the  eleventh  century,  about 
forty  of  these  religious  travellers,  having  returned  from  the 
Holy  Land,  chanced  to  have  met  together  in  Salerno  at  the 
moment  wThen  a small  Saracen  fleet  came  to  insult  the  town, 
and  demand  of  it  a military  contribution.  The  inhabitants 
of  South  Italy,  at  this  time,  abandoned  to  the  delights  of  their 

* I give  Sismondi's  idea  at  it  stands,  but  there  was  no  question  in  the 
matter  of  monotony  or  of  danger.  The  journey  was  made  on  foot  be- 
cause it  was  the  most  laborious  way,  and  the  most  humble. 

f See  farther  on,  p.  110,  the  analogies  with  English  arrangements  of 
the  same  kind. 


426 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


enchanted  climate,  had  lost  nearly  all  military  courage.  The 
Salernitani  saw  with  astonishment  forty  Norman  knights, 
after  having  demanded  horses  and  arms  from  the  Prince  of 
Salerno,  order  the  gates  of  the  town  to  be  opened,  charge 
the  Saracens  fearlessly,  and  put  them  to  flight  The  Salemi- 
tani  followed,  however,  the  example  given  them  by  these  brave 
warriors,  and  those  of  the  Mussulmans  who  escaped  their 
swords  were  forced  to  re-embark  in  all  haste. 

“ The  Prince  of  Salerno,  Guaimar  m.,  tried  in  vain  to  keep 
the  warrior-pilgrims  at  his  court : but  at  his  solicitation  other 
companies  established  themselves  on  the  rocks  of  Salerno  and 
Amalfi,  until,  on  Christmas  Day,  1041,  (exactly  a quarter  of  a 
century  before  the  coronation  here  at  Westminster  of  the 
Conqueror,)  they  gathered  their  scattered  forces  at  Aversa,* 
twelve  groups  of  them  under  twelve  chosen  counts,  and  all 
under  the  Lombard  Ardoin,  as  commander-in-chief.”  Be  so 
good  as  to  note  that, — a marvellous  key-note  of  historical  fact 
about  the  unjesting  Lombards.  I cannot  find  the  total  Nor- 
man number  : the  chief  contingent,  under  William  of  the  Iron 
Arm,  the  son  of  Tancred  of  Hauteville,  was  only  of  three  hun- 
dred knights  ; the  Count  of  Aversa’s  troop,  of  the  same  num- 
ber, is  named  as  an  important  part  of  the  little  army — admit 
it  for  ten  times  Tancred’s,  three  thousand  men  in  all  At 
Aversa,  these  three  thousand  men  form,  coolly  on  Christmas 
Day,  1041,  the  design  of — well,  I told  you  they  didn’t  design 
much,  only,  now  we’re  here,  we  may  as  well,  while  we’re 
about  it, — overthrow  the  Greek  empire ! That  was  their 
little  game  ! — a Christmas  mumming  to  purpose.  The  fol- 
lowing year,  the  whole  of  Apulia  was  divided  among  them. 

I will  not  spoil,  by  abstracting,  the  magnificent  follo^ving 
history  of  Robert  Guiscard,  the  most  wonderful  soldier  of  that 
or  any  other  time  : I leave  you  to  finish  it  for  yourselves,  only 
asking  you  to  read  together  with  it,  the  sketch,  in  Turner’s 
history  of  the  Anglo-Saxons,  of  Alfred’s  long  previous  war 
with  the  Norman  Hasting ; pointing  out  to  you  for  foci  of 
character  in  each  contest,  the  culminating  incidents  of  naval 
battle.  In  Guiscard’s  struggle  with  the  Greeks,  he  encounters 
* In  Lombardy,  south  of  Pavia. 


TEE  PLEASURES  OF  DEED. 


427 


for  their  chief  naval  force  the  Venetian  fleet  under  the  Doge 
Domenico  Selvo.  The  Venetians  are  at  this  moment  un- 
doubted masters  in  all  naval  warfare  ; the  Normans  are 
worsted  easily  the  first  day —the  second  day,  fighting  harder, 
they  are  defeated  again,  and  so  disastrously  that  the  V enetian 
Doge  takes  no  precautions  against  them  on  the  third  day, 
thinking  them  utterly  disabled.  Guiscard  attacks  him  again 
on  the  third  day,  with  the  mere  wreck  of  his  own  ships,  and 
defeats  the  tired  and  amazed  Italians  finally ! 

The  sea-fight  between  Alfred’s  ships  and  those  of  Hasting, 
ought  to  be  still  more  memorable  to  us.  Alfred,  as  I noticed 
in  last  lecture,  had  built  war  ships  nearly  twice  as  long  as  the 
Normans’,  swifter,  and  steadier  on  the  waves.  Six  Norman 
ships  were  ravaging  the  Isle  of  Wight ; Alfred  sent  nine  of 
his  own  to  take  them.  The  King’s  fleet  found  the  North- 
men’s embayed,  and  three  of  them  aground.  The  three 
others  engaged  Alfred's  nine,  twice  their  size ; two  of  the  Vi- 
king ships  were  taken,  but  the  third  escaped,  with  only  five 
men  ! A nation  which  verily  took  its  pleasures  in  its  Deeds. 

But  before  I can  illustrate  farther  either  their  deeds  or 
their  religion,  I must  for  an  instant  meet  the  objection  which 
I suppose  the  extreme  probity  of  the  nineteenth  century 
must  feel  acutely  against  these  men, — that  they  all  lived  by 
thieving. 

Without  venturing  to  allude  to  the  raison  d’etre  of  the 
present  French  and  English  Stock  Exchanges,  I will  merely 
ask  any  of  you  here,  whether  of  Saxon  or  Norman  blood,  to 
define  for  himself  what  he  means  by  the  “possession  of 
India.”  I have  no  doubt  that  you  all  wish  to  keep  India  in- 
order,  and  in  like  manner  I have  assured  you  that  Duke  Wil- 
liam wished  to  keep  England  in  order.  If  you  will  read  the 
lecture  on  the  life  of  Sir  Herbert  Edwardes,  which  I hope  to 
give  in  London  after  finishing  this  course,*  you  will  see  how 
a Christian  British  officer  can,  and  does,  verily,  and  with  his 
whole  heart,  keep  in  order  such  part  of  India  as  may  be  en- 

* This  was  prevented  by  the  necessity  for  the  re-arrangement  of  my 
terminal  Oxford  lectures : I am  now  preparing  that  on  Sir  Herbert  for 
publication  in  a somewhat  expanded  form. 


428 


TEE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


trusted  to  him,  and  in  so  doing,  secure  our  Empire.  But  the 
silent  feeling  and  practice  of  the  nation  about  India  is  based 
on  quite  other  motives  than  Sir  Herbert’s.  Every  mutiny, 
every  danger,  every  terror,  and  every  crime,  occurring  under, 
or  paralyzing,  our  Indian  legislation,  arises  directly  out  of  our 
national  desire  to  live  on  the  loot  of  India,  and  the  notion 
always  entertained  by  English  young  gentlemen  and  ladies  of 
good  position,  falling  in  love  with  each  other  without  imme- 
diate prospect  of  establishment  in  Belgrave  Square,  that  they 
can  find  in  India,  instantly  on  landing,  a bungalow  ready  fur- 
nished with  the  loveliest  fans,  china,  and  shawls, — ices  and 
sherbet  at  command,  — four-and-twenty  slaves  succeeding 
each  other  hourly  to  swing  the  punkah,  and  a regiment  with 
a beautiful  band  to  “ keep  order  ” outside,  all  round  the 
house. 

Entreating  your  pardon  for  what  may  seem  rude  in  these 
personal  remarks,  I will  further  entreat  you  to  read  my  ac- 
count of  the  death  of  Cceur  de  Lion  in  the  third  number  of 
‘ Fors  Clavigera  ’ — and  also  the  scenes  in  ‘ Ivanhoe  ’ between 
Cceur  de  Lion  and  Locksley  ; and  commending  these  few  pas- 
sages to  your  quiet  consideration,  I proceed  to  give  you 
another  anecdote  or  two  of  the  Normans  in  Italy,  twelve  years 
later  than  those  given  above,  and,  therefore,  only  thirteen 
years  before  the  battle  of  Hastings. 

Their  division  of  South  Italy  among  them  especially,  and 
their  defeat  of  Venice,  had  alarmed  everybody  considerably, — 
especially  the  Pope,  Leo  IX.,  who  did  not  understand  this 
manifestation  of  their  piety.  He  sent  to  Henry  HL  of  Ger- 
many, to  whom  he  owed  his  Popedom,  for  some  German 
knights,  and  got  five  hundred  spears  ; gathered  out  of  all 
Apulia,  Campania,  and  the  March  of  Ancona,  what  Greek  and 
Latin  troops  were  to  be  had,  to  join  his  own  army  of  the  patri- 
mony of  St  Peter ; and  the  holy  Pontiff,  with  this  numerous 
army,  but  no  general,  began  the  campaign  by  a pilgrimage 
with  all  his  troops  to  Monte  Cassino,  in  order  to  obtain,  if  it 
might  be,  St.  Benedict  for  general 

Against  the  Pope’s  collected  masses,  with  St  Benedict,  their 
contemplative  but  at  first  inactive  general,  stood  the  little 


TEE  PLEASURES  OF  DEED. 


429 


army  of  Normans, — certainly  not  more  than  the  third  of  their 
number — but  with  Kobert  Guiscard  for  captain,  and  under 
him  his  brother,  Humphrey  of  Hauteville,  and  Kichard  of 
Aversa.  Not  in  fear,  but  in  devotion,  they  prayed  the  Pope 
* avec  instance,’ — to  say  on  what  conditions  they  could  appease 
his  anger,  and  live  in  peace  under  him.  But  the  Pope  would 
hear  of  nothing  but  their  evacuation  of  Italy.  Whereupon, 
they  had  to  settle  the  question  in  the  Norman  manner. 

The  two  armies  met  in  front  of  Civitella,  on  Waterloo  day, 
18th  June,  thirteen  years,  as  I said,  before  the  battle  of  Hast- 
ings. The  German  knights  were  the  heart  of  the  Pope’s  army, 
but  they  were  only  five  hundred ; the  Normans  surrounded 
them  first,  and  slew  them,  nearly  to  a man — and  then  made 
extremely  short  work  with  the  Italians  and  Greeks.  The  Pope, 
with  the  wreck  of  them,  fled  into  Civitella  ; but  the  towns- 
people dared  not  defend  their  walls,  and  thrust  the  Pope  him- 
self out  of  their  gates — to  meet,  alone,  the  Norman  army. 

He  met  it,  not  alone,  St.  Benedict  being  with  him  now,  when 
he  had  no  longer  the  strength  of  man  to  trust  in. 

The  Normans,  as  they  approached  him,  threw  themselves 
on  their  knees, — covered  themselves  with  dust,  and  implored 
his  pardon  and  his  blessing. 

There  is  a bit  of  poetry — if  you  like, — but  a piece  of  steel- 
clad  fact  also,  compared  to  which  the  battle  of  Hastings  and 
Waterloo  both,  were  mere  boy’s  squabbles. 

You  don’t  suppose,  you  British  schoolboys,  that  you  over- 
threw Napoleon — you  ? Your  prime  Minister  folded  up  the 
map  of  Europe  at  the  thought  of  him.  Not  you,  but  the 
snows  of  Heaven,  and  the  hand  of  Him  who  dasheth  in 
pieces  with  a rod  of  iron.  He  casteth  forth  His  ice  like 
morsels, — who  can  stand  before  His  cold  ? 

But,  so  far  as  you  have  indeed  the  right  to  trust  in  the 
courage  of  your  own  hearts,  remember  also — it  is  not  in  Nor- 
man nor  Saxon,  but  in  Celtic  race  that  your  real  strength  lies. 
The  battles  both  of  Waterloo  and  Alma  were  won  by  Irish 
and  Scots — by  the  terrible  Scots  Greys,  and  by  Sir  Colin’s 
Highlanders.  Your  * thin  red  line,’  was  kept  steady  at  Alma 
only  by  Colonel  Yea’s  swearing  at  them. 


430 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


But  the  old  Pope,  alone  against  a Norman  army,  wanted 
nobody  to  swear  at  him.  Steady  enough  he,  haying  some- 
body to  bless  him,  instead  of  swear  at  him.  St.  Benedict, 
namely  ; whose  (memory  shall  we  say  ?)  helped  him  now  at 
his  pinch  in  a singular  manner, — for  the  Normans,  haying 
got  the  old  man’s  forgiveness,  vowed  themselves  his  feudal 
servants ; and  for  seven  centuries  afterwards  the  whole  king- 
dom of  Naples  remained  a fief  of  St  Peter, — won  for  him 
thus  by  a single  man,  unarmed,  against  three  thousand  Nor- 
man knights,  captained  by  Robert  Guise ard  ! 

A day  of  deeds,  gentlemen,  to  some  purpose, — that  18th  of 
June,  anyhow. 

Here,  in  the  historical  account  of  Norman  character,  I 
must  unwillingly  stop  for  to-day — because,  as  you  choose 
to  spend  your  University  money  in  building  ball-rooms  in- 
stead of  lecture-rooms,  I dare  not  keep  you  much  longer  in 
this  black  hole,  with  its  nineteenth  century  ventilation.  I 
try  your  patience — and  tax  your  breath — only  for  a few  min- 
utes more  in  drawing  the  necessary  corollaries  respecting 
Norman  art.* 

How  far  the  existing  British  nation  owes  its  military  prow- 
ess to  the  blood  of  Normandy  and  Anjou,  I have  never  exam- 
ined its  genealogy  enough  to  tell  you ; — but  this  I can  tell 
you  positively,  that  whatever  constitutional  order  or  personal 
valour  the  Normans  enforced  or  taught  among  the  nations 
they  conquered,  they  did  not  at  first  attempt  with  their  own 
hands  to  rival  them  in  any  of  their  finer  arts,  but  used  both 
Greek  and  Saxon  sculptors,  either  as  slaves,  or  hired  workmen, 
and  more  or  less  therefore  chilled  and  degraded  the  hearts  of 
the  men  thus  set  to  servile,  or  at  best,  hireling,  labour. 

In  1874,  I went  to  see  Etna,  Scylla,  Charybdis,  and  the 
tombs  of  the  Norman  Kings  at  Palermo ; surprised,  as  you 

* Given  at  much  greater  length  in  the  lecture,  with  diagrams  from 
Iffley  and  Poictiers,  without  which  the  text  of  them  would  be  unintelli- 
gible. The  sum  of  what  I said  was  a strong  assertion  of  the  incapacity 
of  the  Normans  for  any  but  the  rudest  and  most  grotesque  sculpture, — 
Poictiers  being,  on  the  contrary,  examined  and  praised  as  Gallic-French 
— not  Norman. 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  DEED. 


431 


may  imagine,  to  find  that  there  wasn’t  a stroke  nor  a notion 
of  Norman  work  in  them.  They  are,  every  atom,  done  by 
Greeks,  and  are  as  pure  Greek  as  the  temple  of  JEgina  ; but 
more  rich  and  refined.  I drew  with  accurate  care,  and  with 
measured  profile  of  every  moulding,  the  tomb  built  for  Roger 
II.  (afterwards  Frederick  II.  was  laid  in  its  dark  porphyry). 
And  it  is  a perfect  type  of  the  Greek-Christian  form  of  tomb 
— temple  over  sarcophagus,  in  which  the  pediments  rise 
gradually,  as  time  goes  on,  into  acute  angles — get  pierced  in 
the  gable  with  foils,  and  their  sculptures  thrown  outside  on 
their  flanks,  and  become  at  last  in  the  fourteenth  century,  the 
tombs  of  Verona.  But  what  is  the  meaning  of  the  Normans 
employing  these  Greek  slaves  for  their  work  in  Sicily  (within 
thirty  miles  of  the  field  of  Himera)  ? Well,  the  main  meaning 
is  that  though  the  Normans  could  build,  they  couldn’t  carve,  and 
were  wise  enough  not  to  try  to,  when  they  couldn’t,  as  you  do 
now  all  over  this  intensely  comic  and  tragic  town  : but,  here 
in  England,  they  only  employed  the  Saxon  with  a grudge, 
and  therefore  being  more  and  more  driven  to  use  barren 
mouldings  without  sculpture,  gradually  developed  the  struct- 
ural forms  of  archivolt,  which  breaking  into  the  lancet, 
brighten  and  balance  themselves  into  the  symmetry  of  early 
English  Gothic. 

But  even  for  the  first  decoration  of  the  archivolt  itself,  they 
were  probably  indebted  to  the  Greeks  in  a degree  I never 
apprehended,  until  by  pure  happy  chance,  a friend  gave  me 
the  clue  to  it  just  as  I was  writing  the  last  pages  of  this  lect- 
ure. 

In  the  generalization  of  ornament  attempted  in  the  first 
volume  of  the  ‘Stones  of  Venice,’  I supposed  the  Norman 
zigzag  (and  with  some  practical  truth)  to  be  derived  from 
the  angular  notches  with  which  the  blow  of  an  axe  can  most 
easily  decorate,  or  at  least  vary,  the  solid  edge  of  a square 
fillet.  My  good  friend,  and  supporter,  and  for  some  time 
back  the  single  trustee  of  St.  George’s  Guild,  Mr.  George 
Baker,  having  come  to  Oxford  on  Guild  business,  I happened 
to  show  him  the  photographs  of  the  front  of  Iffley  church, 
which  had  been  collected  for  this  lecture ; and  immediately 


432 


TEE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


afterwards,  in  taking  him  through  the  schools,  stopped  to 
show  him  the  Athena  of  iEgina  as  one  of  the  most  important 
of  the  Greek  examples  lately  obtained  for  us  by  Professor 
Richmond.  The  statue  is  (rightly)  so  placed  that  in  looking 
up  to  it,  the  plait  of  hair  across  the  forehead  is  seen  in  a 
steeply  curved  arch.  “ Why,”  says  Mr.  Baker,  pointing  to  it, 
“there’s  the  Norman  arch  of  Iffly.”  Sure  enough,  there  it 
exactly  was  : and  a moment’s  reflection  showed  me  how  easily 
and  with  what  instinctive  fitness,  the  Norman  builders,  look- 
ing to  the  Greeks  as  their  absolute  masters  in  sculpture,  and 
recognizing  also,  during  the  Crusades,  the  hieroglyphic  use 
of  the  zigzag,  for  water,  by  the  Egyptians,  might  have  adopted 
this  easily  attained  decoration  at  once  as  the  sign  of  the  ele- 
ment over  which  they  reigned,  and  of  the  power  of  the  Greek 
goddess  who  ruled  both  it  and  them. 

I do  not  in  the  least  press  your  acceptance  of  such  a tra- 
dition, nor  for  the  rest,  do  I care  myself  whence  any  method 
of  ornament  is  derived,  if  only,  as  a stranger,  you  bid  it  rever- 
ent welcome.  But  much  probability  is  added  to  the  conject- 
ure by  the  indisputable  transition  of  the  Greek  egg  and  arrow 
moulding  into  the  floral  cornices  of  Saxon  and  other  twelfth 
century  cathedrals  in  Central  France.  These  and  other  such 
transitions  and  exaltations  I will  give  you  the  materials  to 
study  at  your  leisure,  after  illustrating  in  my  next  lecture  the 
forces  of  religious  imagination  by  which  all  that  was  most 
beautiful  in  them  was  inspired. 


